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CONTENTS, 


CKAPIE* PAGB 


I. THE INN OF THE BRIDGE 

OF 

SEVRES 

• 

m 

• I 

II. CAGLIOSTRO 

m 

m 


m 

• 9 

III. FATALITY - . • 






IV. SEBASTIAN 

- 

m 


m 

- 25 

V. WHAT BECAME OF SEBASTIAN 

m 


- - 

• 45 

VI. THE MAN OF THE PLACE 

LOUIS XV. 


m 

• - 50 

VII. TRUCE - - - 

- 

• 


m 

- 58 

VIII. FAVRAS - • 






IX DARK PROSPECTS • 

• 

m 


m 

. 86 * 

X THE FRENCH BAKER - 

m 



\ 

m 

• 95 

XI. THE ADVANTAGE OF HAVING 

THE DEAL 

m 

• 102 

XII. METZ AND PARIS 

• 

« 


m 

• 125 

XIII. OLD ACQUAINTANCES - 

m 



m 

• 136 

XIV. ŒDIPUS AND LOT 

m 

m 


m 

- 149 


XV. IN WHICH GAMAIN SHOWS THAT HE IS REALLY 

MASTER OF MASTERS, MASTER OF ALL - - I55 

XVI. A PROVIDENCE WATCHES OVER DRUNKEN MEN - 161 

XVII. THE MACHINE OF M. GUILLOTIN - - - 174 

XVIII. MONSIEUR DISAVOWS FAVRAS, AND THE KINO 

TAKES THE OATH OF THE CONSTITUTION • 1 92 


3 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


and dauphin, were coming; that they set out about noon : and 
they were about to occupy the Tuileries, the consequence of 
which would be that Paris, having in it “ the baker, his wife, and 
the baket^s boyf would not want bread. 

He was waiting to see the cortège pass. 

The assertion might be true, yet it was easier to see that he 
looked oftener towards Paris than towards Versailles. 

After a few minutes he seemed satisfied, for a man clad al- 
most as he was, and apparently of the same condition, was seen 
to approach the inn. 

The new-comer walked heavily, like one who had made a 
long journey. His age might be that of the unknown man, 
that is to say, as people usually do, that he was on the wrong 
side of forty. His features betokened him to be a man of com- 
mon inclinations and vulgar instincts. 

The stranger looked curiously at the new-comer, as if he 
wished at one glance to measure all the impurity and wicked- 
ness of the heart of the man. 

When the workman who came from Paris was about twenty 
paces from the man who awaited him, the latter poured out the 
first glass of wine into one of two glasses which stood on the 
table. “Ah 1 ha !” said he, “it is cold, and the journey is long. 
Let us drink, and warm ourselves up.” 

The man from Paris looked around to see who gave him this 
invitation. “ Do you speak to me ?” said he. 

“ Whom else should I ? There is no other person present,” 
was the reply. 

“Why offer me wine?” “Why not ?” 

“Ah r 

“ It is because we are of the same, or nearly the same trade.” 

“ Everybody may be of the same trade. It is necessary, 
however, to know whether one be companion or master.” 

“ Well, we will drink a glass of wine, chat, and find out 
which is the case.” 

“ Very well,” said the workman, advancing towards the door 
of the inn. 

The stranger led the new-comer to the table and gave him 
the glass. 

“ Ah !” said he, “ this is burgundy.” 

“ Yes, the brand was recommended to me, and I do not 
regret that I ordered it There is yet wine in the bottle, and 
other bottles in the caVe.” 


THE INN OF THE BRIDGE OF SEVRES, 


3 


" Wliat are you about now ?” 

“ I am from Paris, and await the coming of the royal cortège,, 
which I intend to accompany to Paris.” 

“ What mean you ? 

“ The king, queen and dauphin return to Paris with the mar- 
ket women, two hundred members of the assembly, and the 
national guard under the command of Lafayette.” 

“ Le Bourgeois has then resolved to go to Paris ?” 

“He had to do so.” 

“ So I thought, at three last night, when I left for Paris.” 

“ Ah ! I was curious to know what would become of the 
king, especially as I know him. This is no boast. A man 
who has a wife and three children must feed them, especially 
when there is no longer a royal forge.” 

The stranger said only, “ Then business took you to Paris ?” 

“Yes, and on my honour, I was well paid for it.” As he 
spoke, the man rattled several coins in his pocket. “The 
money, however,” said he, “ was given me by a servant ; what 
is worst of all, by a German servant. That was wrong.” 

“ Ah,” said the stranger, like a man who advances slowly, 
but yet advances, “ you are on a business which is important, 
and well paid for ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Because it is difficult ?” “ It is.” 

“ A secret lock ? hey ?” “ An invisible door.** 

“ An invisible door !” “ I imagine a man in a house, who 

finds it necessary to hide himself. Well, the bell is rung. Where 
is monsieur ? He is not in ! no ! he is ! look for him I he is looked 
for ! good evening ! I defy any one to find monsieur. An iron 
door with oak panelling, you understand — few can tell the 
difference ” 

“ But it anyone touch it ?” 

“ Bah ! just make the oak an inch thick, and no one can tell. 

I could not myself.” 

“ Where made you that ?” “ Aha !” 

“ Then you will not tell ?” “ I cannot, for I do not know.” 

* You were then blind-folded ?” 

“ Exactly. There was a carriage at the gate ; they said, 

‘ Are you so and so?’ ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘Well, we awaited you. 
Get in.’ I did. When in, my eyes were bandaged, and the 
carriage was driven for nearly half an hour ; at last, the door of 
a great house was opened ; I stumbled at the first step, and 

I — 2 


4 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


then went up ten steps into the vestibule. There I found a 
German servant, who said to the others, Tt is well ! Go away, 
there is no longer any need of you/ The others left, and the 
bandage was taken from my eyes, and I was told what I had to 
do. I set to work, and in one hour all was done. They paid 
me in good louis d’or. My eyes were again blind-folded ; I 
was put in the carriage, and taken back to the place whence I 
was borne.” 

“ The bandage must have been very tight to prevent one 
from telling the right from the left.” 

“ Heu : heu !’* 

“ Come, then,” said the stranger, “ tell me what you really 
saw.” 

“ When I stumbled I took care in a slight degree to derange 
the bandage.” 

“ And when you had done so ?” said the stranger with equal 
vivacity. 

“ I saw a row of trees on the right, which made me think 
the house was on the Boulevard ; that was all I know.” 

“ All !” “ On my word of honour.” 

“ That gives little information.” 

“ The Boulevards are long, and there are many houses with 
wide doors on them.” 

“Then you would not recognize the house?” 

The locksmith thought for a moment and said, “ No, I would 
not.” 

The stranger, though his face did not seem to say what he 
really wished to utter, appeared satisfied and said : “ Well, then, 
it seems there are no locksmiths, since people send to Versailles 
for one to make a secret door.” 

He then filled the glasses again, and knocked 6n the table 
with the empty bottle, that the innkeeper might bring a full 
one. 

“ Yes, there are locksmiths in Paris, but there are masters 
a id professors.” 

“ Ah, I see ; like St. Eloi, you are one of the latter.” 

“ I am. Do you belong to the trade ?” 

“ Something of the sort.” 

“What are you.?” “A gunsmith.” 

“ Have you any of your work about you ? ’ 

“ Do you see this gun ?” 

The locksmith took the gun, looked carefully at it, tried the 


THE INN OF THE BRIDGE OF SEVRES, 


5 


lock, and approved of the click of the springs, then, reading the 
name on the breech, said, “ Impossible, my friend ! Leclerc 
cannot be older than twenty-eight. Do not be offended, but 
you and I are close on fifty.’* 

“ True, I am not Leclerc, but I am just the same.” 

“ How so ?” “ I am his master.” 

“ Ah, that is just as if I had said I am not the king, but his 
master.” 

“ What mean you ?” ** Because I am the king’s master.” 

** Ah ! have I the honour to speak to M. Gamain ?” 

“ You have, and if I could, I would serve you,” said the lock- 
smith, delighted at the effect he had produced. 

“ Diable, I did not know I was talking to a man of such 
consequence.” 

‘‘ Ah !” “ To a man of such consequence,” repeated the 

stranger. “Tell me, is it pleasant to be a king’s master?” 

“ Why ?” ^ 

“ I think it very humiliating for one man to be forced to call 
another ‘your majesty.*” 

“ I did not have to do so. When at the forge, I called him 
Bourgeois, and he called me Gamain, when we spoke together 
familiarly.** 

“Yes, but when dinner time came, you were sent to eat with 
the servants.” 

“Not a bit of it ; a table ready served was brought to me at 
the shop, and at breakfast he oiten said, ‘ Bah ! I will not go 
to see the queen, for then I will not have to wash my hands.’ ” 

“ I do not see.” 

“Why, when the king worked in iron as we do, his hands 
w’ere like ours. That does not, however, keep us from being 
honest people, but the queen used to say : ‘ Fie, sire, your 
hands are dirty.* Just as if one could work in a shop and have 
clean hands ! I tell you, he was never happy, except when in 
his geographical library, his study, or when he was with me. I 
think, though, he liked me best.” 

“ Such a pupil as a king must have been a famous business 
for you.” 

“ Not a bit : you are mistaken. I wish devoutly it was so \ 
for though the master of Louis XVI., the Restorer of France, 
while all the world thinks me as rich as Croesus, I am poor as 
Job.** 

“ You poor ? What on earth does he do with his money, then ?” 


6 


THE COLNTESS DE CHARNY, 


“ One half goes to the poor, the other half to the rich, so 
that he never has a penny. The Coigny, the Vaudreuil, and 
Polignac, gnaw the poor fellow away. One day he wished to 
reduce Coigny’s salary, and made Coigny come to the door of 
the shop, and after about five minutes, he came in as pale as 
possible, saying, ‘ On my honour I thought he would beat me.* 
‘ But his salary, sire ?’ said I. ‘ Oh, I let it .stand as it is. I 
could not help it.’ A few days afterwards he sought to make 
some remarks to the queen about the pension of Madame de 
Polignac ; only think, three hundred thousand francs ! a nice 
thing. Bah ! it was not enough. For the queen made him give 
her five hundred thousand. Thus you see these Polignacs, who 
a few years ago had not a xsou, are about to leave France with 
millions. That would be nothing, had they any talent ; but give 
the whole of them an anvil and sledge, and not one can shoe a 
horse or make a key. They, however, like knights, as they say 
they are, have urged the king forward, and now leave him to 
get on as he can with Bailly, Mirabeau, and Lafayette ; while 
to me, who would have given him such good advice, his master, 
his friend, who first put the file in his hand, he has given only 
fifteen hundred crowns a year.” 

But you work with him, and something good falls in from 
day to day.’ 

“Whatl I work with him. Flo. It would compromise me. 
Since the taking of the Bastille I have not put my foot inside of 
the palace. Once or twice I met him ; the street was full of 
people, and he bowed to me. The second time was on the 
SatoryRoad, and he stopped his cairiage. ‘Well, poorGamain, 
said he, ‘ things do not go on as ycu wish them to. This will, 
however, teach you. But how are your wife and children ?’ 
‘Well, very well,’ said I. ‘Here,’ said the king, ‘make them 
this present for me.’ He searched his pockets, and all the 
money he could find was nine louis. ‘ This is all I have,’ said 
he, ‘ and I am ashamed to make you so poor a present.’ You 
will agree with me that a king who has nine louis only, and 
who makes his comrade so poor a present, must be badly ofif.” 

“ You did not take them?’’ 

“Yes I did. You must always take, for somebody else 
would. It is, however, all right, for I will never go to Versailles, 
though he send for me again and again. He does not deserve 
it ; and when I think that he had ten thousand bottles of wine, 
each of which was worth a dozen of this, and that he never said 


THE INN OF THE BRIDGE OF SEVRES, 


1 


to one of his servants, ‘ Take a basket to Gamain.* Ah, he 
preferred that his Swiss, his body-guard, and his Flemish 
soldiers should have it.” 

“ Well,” said the stranger, “ so it is with kings ; they are un- 
grateful. We are, however, no longer alone.” At that moment 
two men and a fishwoman entered the room, and sat at a table 
near the one at which Gamain and the stranger were drinking 
the second bottle. 

The locksmith looked at them with an attention which made 
the stranger smile. 

The party, however, was worthy of attention. 

One of the men was all torso ; the other all legs. The 
woman it is not so easy to describe. 

The torso was like a dwarf, for he was hardly five feet high. 
He perhaps lost an inch or two from the fact that he was 
knock-kneed. His face, instead of lessening this deformity, 
seemed to make it more apparent, for his straight and dirty hair 
was flattened on his head, and his badly-marked brow seemed 
to have grown hap-hazard. His eyes were usually glassy, but, 
when irritated, flashed like those of a viper. His nose was flat, 
and made his high cheek-bones the more apparent. To make 
everything more hideous, his yellow lips covered but half a 
dozen black and broken teeth. 

The veins of this man seemed filled with mingled blood and 
poison. 

The second, different from the first, who had short legs, 
looked like a crane on stilts. His resemblance was the more 
striking, since, hump-backed like the crane, with his head sunken 
between his shoulders, it was to be distinguished only by its 
red eyes and its long-pointed nose. Like the heron, too, it 
seemed to have the faculty of extending its neck at will, and 
picking out the eyes of any person it pleased. This, however, 
was nothing, for the arms seemed to have an equal elasticity, 
for seated as he was, he could at once pick up a handkerchief 
on the floor with which to wipe his brow. 

The third was an amphibious being, the family, but not the 
sex of which could be recognized. It was either a man or 
woman of thirty, or of thirty-four years, and w’ore the dress of a 
fishwoman, with chains of gold, and ear-rings, with lace cape, 
etc. Her features, as far as they could be distinguished through 
the coating of rouge above them, were worn and faded. When 
one had once seen her, one awaited with anxiety until she 


s 


THE COUNTESS DE ChARNY. 


should open her mouth, with the expectation that her voice, 
better than her appearance, would give some indication which 
might be definite. All this though, was nothing, for her soprano 
voice left the examiner in equal doubt, for the ear was not more 
positive than the eye. 

The shoes and stockings of the woman and the two men 
indicated that they had walked in the mud long and far. 

“ Strange !’* said Gamain, ‘‘ but I think I know that woman.'* 

“ Perhaps," said the stranger \ “ but, my dear fellow, when 
you see three persons together, be sure they have business to 
attend to : let us not bore them ” He took up his gun, and 
proposed to go. 

“ Do you know them ?" 

Yes, by sight. I swear I have seen the woman somewhere.’* 

“ At court ?" “ Bah ! she is a fishwoman." 

They go to court sometimes." 

“ If you know them, tell me the names of the men ; it may 
enable me to remember the woman.” 

“ The men ?" “ Yes.” 

« Which ?" « The dwarf." 

“Jean Paul Marat." “And the hunchback?” 

“ Prosper Vevrieres.” “Ah, ah !" 

“ Does that put you on the track of the woman ?" “ No.** 

“ Look again.” — ^ — “ I give my tongue to the dogs.” 

“ But the fishwoman ?” “ Wait a bit — no — yes." 

“ Yes ?” “ It is — impossible." 

“ Yes, at first it seems impossible.” 

“ It is ” 

“ All. you v;ill never name her. The fishwoman is the Duke 
d’ Aiguillon.” 

At the sound of the name, the apparent woman turned pale 
and looked around. 

The stranger placed his fingers on his lips, and left. Gamain 
followed him, thinking that he was mistaken. At the door, he 
knocked against a person who seemed to fly, pursued by per- 
sons who shouted out : “ The queen’s hairdresser !" Among 
these pursuers were two, each of whom bore a bloody head on 
a pike. 

“ What is the matter?" said the locksmith to the stranger. 

“Who knows? Perhaps they wish him to curl the hair of 
those two heads. People in revolutionary days take strange 
fancies." 


THE INN OF THE BRIDGE OF SEVRES, 


9 


He mingled in the crowd, leaving Gamain, from whom per- 
haps he had extracted all he wished, to return to his shop at 
Versailles. 


CHAPTER II. 

CAGLIOSTRO. 

The stranger was able to hide himself easily in the crowd, 
especially as it was large. 

It was the advance guard of the escort of the king, queen, 
and dauphin. 

It was composed of miserable and ragged beggars half drunk, 
the floating foam of the population, like the froth which rises 
from water or lava. 

All at once there was a great tumult. The bayonets of the 
National Guard and the white horse of Lafayette were seen. 

The crowd shouted loudly, “ Long live Lafayette T who 
from time to time took off his hat, and saluted with his sword. 
“ Vive Mirabeau !” too was heard, as the latter from time to 
time put his head through the carriage window, in which he, 
with five other members of the National Assembly, sat, to get 
fresh air. 

Thus the unfortunate king, for whom all was silence, heard 
the popularity he had lost applauded. He also heard the 
quality in which he was deficient praised. Dr. Gilbert, as 
he accompanied the king, without any immediate companion, 
walked on the right side of the royal carriage, that is, close to 
the queen. 

On the two sides of the carriage of the king and queen, be- 
yond the kind of file of footmen, who had taken that position 
so as to be able to aid him in case of necessity, walked, patter- 
ing in the mud, six inches deep, the men and women of the 
market, who seemed every moment to make a more compact 
array of their ribbons and gaudy coloured dresses. 

The king looked on with his sad heart-broken air. He had 
not slept on the night before, and had eaten a bad breakfast. 
He had not been allowed time to readjust and to powder his 
hair ; his beard was long, his linen rumpled, and he looked 
wretched. A'as, the poor king was not a man for dangerous 
conjuncture? —at all crises he hung down his head in dejection. 


10 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


Once only he looked up, and then it was when his head ttras 
about to fall on the scaffold. 

At about a hundred paces from the cabaret, the crowd halted, 
and the cries down the whole line were increased. 

The queen looked out of the window, and the motion, which 
seemed like a salute, increased the murmur. 

“ Gilbert,” said she, “ what is it my people are singing ? 
What are they crying ?” 

Gilbert uttered a sigh, which meant — She is unchanged, 
Then, with an expression of deep sadness, he said, “ Madame, 
the people you call yours was once really so, wlien twenty 
years ago an elegant gentleman, whom I now look for in vain, 
introduced you to them on the balcony, and shouted, ‘ Long 
live our dauphiness 1’ adding, madame, ‘ There you have two 
hundred thousand lovers.’ ” 

The queen bit her lips, for she could find no fault with his 
answer. 

“ True,” said she, ** but it only proves that people change.” 

Gilbert bowed, and was silent. 

“ I asked you a question, M. Gilbert,” with an obstinacy she 
persisted in, even when aware that the answer would be un- 
pleasant 

“Yes, madame, and as your majesty insists, I will reply. 
The people sing : 

‘ La Boulangère a des ecus. 

Qui ne lui coûtent guere.* 

You know who the people call the baker’s wife.” 

' “ Yes, sir, I know they do me that honour. I am, however, 
used to nicknames. They once called me Madame Deficit. 
Is there any connection between the first and the last name ?” 

“ Yes, madame, and to be assured, you have only to think of 
one of the two verses I have repeated to you.” 

The queen repeated them, and said ; 

“ M. Gilbert, I do not understand.” 

Gilbert was silent. The queen continued, “Well, did you 
hear me ? Î do not understand.” 

“ Does your majesty insist on an explanation ?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“They mean your majesty’s ministers, especially of finance, 
have been too complaisant — M. de Galonné for instance. The 
people knew that your majesty had only to ask that it ought to 
be given you, and as queens ask without much difficulty, for on 
asking they command, the people sing : 


CA GUOS TI? 0, 


H 


• La Boulangère a des ecus, 

Qui ne lui coûtent guere/ 

That îs to say, which scarcely cost the trouble of asking.*' 

The queen grasped convulsively with her white hand the 
velvet of the carriage door. 

“Well,” said she, “that is what it sings. Now, M. Gilbert, 
please, for you explain its thoughts well, tell me what it says.” 

“ It says, madame, ‘ We will not want bread in Paris, for we 
have the baker, his wife, and the shop-boy.* ” 

“ You can explain this second insolence distinctly as the first, 
can you not ? I hope so.” 

“ Madame,” said Gilbert, with the same kind melancholy, 
“ if you would reflect, not on the words, but on the intention 
of this people, you would see that you have not so much to 
complain of as you think.** 

“ Let us see,** said the queen. “You know, doctor, I wish 
for nothing so much as for information.** 

“ Whether correctly or not, madame, I cannot say, but it is 
said that a heavy trade in corn is carried on at Versailles, and 
that, therefore, none is brought to Paris. Who feed the poor ? 
The baker and his wife. To whom, as father, mother, and son, 
turn their hands, when for want of money they die ? To the 
baker and his wife. Whom does he beg, after that God who 
provides the harvests ? Those who distribute bread. Are not 
you, madame, the king, this august child, all distributors of bread? 
Do not find fault then with the name, but thank God for the 
hope entertained, that when once king, queen, and dauphin 
are amid 1,200,000 starving people, they will cease to want.” 

“ And should we thank the people while it shouts out but 
nicknames before, around, behind us, for such songs and 
insults ?” 

“Yes, madame, and the more sincerely that this is an exprès 
sion of good-humour, for the nicknames are manifestations 
hope, as its cries are an expression of desire.” 

“ Ah, ah ! The people wish prosperity to Messieurs de 
Lafayette and de Mirabeau ?’* 

“ Yes, madame, for if they have it, being, as you see, sepa- 
rated from the abyss over which you hang, they may serve and 
preserve the monarchy.” 

“ Is then the monarchy so fallen that it may be preserved by 
two men?” 

Gilbert was about to reply, when cries of terror, mingled with 


12 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNW 


bursts of laughter, were heard, and a motion of the crowd was 
made, which, far from separating Gilbert from the carriage, 
drove him close to it. He clung to the door-string, thinking it 
might be necessary for him to defend and aid the queen. 

They were two heads which, after having made Leonard 
dress the hair, they had come to present to the queen. 

At the cries, and the sight of the heads, the crowd opened 
to let them pass. 

“ For mercy’s sake,” said Gilbert, “do not look to the right.” 

The queen was not a woman to obey, she knew not why, 
such an injunction. 

She consequently looked in the direction Gilbert had told 
her not. She uttered a terrible cry. 

All at once her eyes became detached from the horrible 
spectacle, as if there were something yet more awful, and be- 
came riveted, as it were, to a Medusa’s head. 

The queen took her hand from the door of the carriage, and 
placing it on Gilbert’s shoulders, drove her finger-nails almost 
into the flesh. 

The Medusa’s head was that of the stranger whom we saw 
drinking in the inn with Gamain, who leaned with his arms 
folded against a tree. 

Gilbert turned, and when he saw the pale quivering lips of 
the queen, and her fixed eyes, he attributed her excitement to 
the appearance of the two heads, but he saw she was looking 
in a horizontal direction. 

Gilbert looked in the same direction, and at the same 
moment, uttering a cry of surprise, as the queen had of terror, 
both exclaimed, “ Cagliostro.” 

The man who leaned against the tree saw the queen per- 
fectly well. 

He made a sign to Gilbert, as if to say, “ Hither !” 

And then the carriages prepared to set out; mechanically, in- 
stinctively, and naturally, the queen pushed Gilbert to prevent 
his being hurt by the wheel. 

He thought she meant him to go to the stranger. 

If, too, the queen had not pushed him. he could not but 
have gone, for he was no longer master of himself. 

Consequently he stood still, while the cortege defiled, and 
following the false workman, who from time to time looked 
back to see if he was followed, entered a narrow street, hurried, 
at a rapid pace towards Bellevue, and disappeared behind a 


CâGLIOSTRO, 


n 


wall jnst at the moment when the cortège was hidden from 
sight in the direction of Paris, being completely hidden by the 
mountain behind which it w'as. 

Gilbert followed the guide, who preceded him some twenty 
paces, until he was half way up the ascent. Being then in 
Iront of a large and handsome house, the stranger took a key 
from his pocket and opened a little door, which enabled the 
master to leave the house when he pleased unseen by his 
servants. He left the door half open, a direct invitation for 
his companion to follow him. 

Gilbert did so, and carefully closed the door, W'hich turned 
quietly on its hinges, and closed without any noise. 

When once in, Gilbert saw himself in a corridor, the walls 
on which were laid as high as a man, in the most marvellous 
m.anner, with bronze plates like those with which Ghiberti en- 
riched the door of the baptistry of Florence. 

His feet sank in a soft Turkey carpet. 

On the left w^as an open door. 

Gilbert thought this room, too, was intentionally kept open, 
and entered a room hung wiÿi India satin, and furniture 
covered with the same material — one of those fantastic birds, 
painted or embroidered in the fashion the Chinese are so fond 
of, was hung to the wall, and sustained in its beak a mirror, 
which, like the candelabra, was of most exquisite workmanship, 
and represented bunches of lilies. 

There was but one single picture to ornament the room — 
Raphael’s Virgin. Gilbert was admiring this picture, when he 
heard, or rather discerned, that a door opened behind him. He 
turned, and saw Cagliostro coming from a kind of dressing-room. 
One moment had enabled him to efface the stains from his 
hands and arms, to give his dark hair the most aristocratic 
change, and to effect a perfect transformation. 

His costume was covered with embroidery, his hands 
sparkled with diamonds, strangely contrasting with the black 
dress and simple gold ring which Gilbert had received from 
Washington. 

Cagliostro, with an open and smiling face, advanced, and 
reached forth his hand. 

Gilbert seized it. 

“ Wait a moment, dear Gilbert. Since we parted you have 
made such progress, especially in philosophy, that you are the 
master, and I scarcely worthy of being a scholar.” 


14 


THE COUNTESS DE CHAENV, 


“ Thank you for the compliment,” said Gilbert, ** but if I 
have made such progress, how do you know it ? We have not 
met for eight years.” 

“ Think you, dear doctor, that you are one of those men un- 
known because you are unseen ? I have not seen you for eight 
years, but I can nevertheless tell you every day what you have 
been about.” 

“ Indeed !” 

“ Will you still doubt my double sight ?” 

“ You know that I am a mathematician !” 

“ And therefore incredulous. Let us see. You came first 
to France on account of family affairs. They did not concern 
me, and ” 

“No!” said Gilbert, who thought to annoy Cagliostro. “Tell 
me.” 

“ Well, you wished to attend to the education of your son, 
Sebastian, and to place him at a little city eighteen or twenty 
leagues from Paris, and to settle matters with your agent, a 
good fellow, whom, contrary to his inclinations, you keep in 
Paris, and who for many reasons should be with his wife.” 

“ Indeed, you are wonderful ” 

“ Listen : you came the second time in consequence of 
political affairs, which brought you to France, as they have 
brought many others. Then you wrote various pamphlets, and 
sent them to Louis XVI., and as you have a little of the old 
man in you, you are prouder of the royal approbation than you 
would be of that of the master who preceded me in your educa- 
tion — Jean Jacques Rousseau, who, were he now alive, would 
be far greater than any king. You were desirous to know what 
the descendant of Louis XIV. and Henry IV. thougVt of Dr. 
Gilbert. Unfortunately, there existed a little matter of which 
you had not thought, yet which caused me one day to find you 
all bloody, with a ball in your breast, at the Azores, where my 
vessel chanced to touch. This little affair had relation to a 
certain Mademoiselle Andrée de Taverney, who became 
Countess de Charny, and who esteems herself happy in being 
able to serve the queen. Now as the queen could refuse 
nothing to Charny ’s wife, she asked and obtained a lettre-de- 
cachet ; you were arrested at Havre, and taken thence tc the 
Bastille, where, dear doctor, you would be yet, if the people one 
day had not torn it down. Then, like a good royalist as you are, 
you took sides with the king, the physician of whom you are. 



“ You WILL ALWAYS FIND ABOUT A MILLION THERE. ” 



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CAGLIOSTRO, 


15 

Yesterday, or rather this morning, you contributed greatly to 
the safety of the royal family, by hurrying to awaken Lafayette, 
who slept like an honest man, and just now, when you saw me, 
thinking that the queen, who by-th e-bye detests you, was in 
danger, you were willing to make your body a defence for your 
sovereign. Is not this the case ? But I forgot a thing of 
some importance, a magnetic exhibition in the presence of the 
king, the withdrawal of a certain casket seized by one Kas de 
Loup. Have I either forgotten or mistaken aught ?” 

“ True, you are still the magician, sorcerer, and enchanter, 
Cagliostro.” 

Cagliostro smiled with satisfaction. He was rejoiced at 
having, contrary to Gilbert’s wishes, produced the effects which 
the countenance of the latter exhibited. 

Gilbert continued : 

“ Now,” said he, “ as I love you certainly as much as you 
love me, and as my desire to know what has become of you 
since our separation is very great, and equal to that which im- 
pelled you to find out where I was, tell me in what part of the 
world your genius and power has been ernployed ?” 

“ Six months ago I was in the castle of San Angelo, while 
you three months ago were in the Bastille.” 

‘‘ But I thought there was no escape from San Angelo ?** 

“Bah ! remember Benvenuto Cellini.” 

“ Did you too then make a pair of wings, as he did, and like 
a new Icarus fly over the Tiber ?” 

“ I could not, by evangelical precaution. I was placed in a 
deep, dark dungeon.” 

“ You did get out, though ?” “ Yes ; for here I am.” 

“You bribed the keeper ?” 

“Not so; I unfortunately had an incorruptible, but fortun- 
ately not immortal jailor ; chance, or* one less infidel than I 
would say Providence, contrived that he died one day after he 
had thrice refused to release me.” 

“Suddenly?” 

“ Yes. His successor was not incorruptible ; the first time 
he brought me supper he said, * Eat and get strong, for before 
to-morrow we have a journey to take.* He did not lie, for that 
night each of us used up three horses, and travelled a hundred 
miles.” 

“ What said the government to your flight ?” 

“ Nothing. They dressed the body of the dead jailor in my 


i6 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


oM clothes ; fired a pistol ball in his face ; laid the weapon be- 
side him, and said that having procured arms, I had killed 
myself. An account of my death was published, and the poor 
Cevil was buried in my place. 

“ You see, Gilbert, at last I am dead. If I say I am not 
dead, they will reply by producing the magistrate’s certificate 
to prove my burial at least. There was no need of that, how- 
ever, for it became necessary for me for the time to disappear. 
I then, as Abbé Dutille said, made a plunge, and have 
appeared under another name.” 

“ And what is your name now, if I commit no indiscretion ?” 

“My name is Zanoni ; I am a Genoese banker, and do a 
little discount business with princes. You know my heart and 
purse, as ever, are at your service. If you are ever in need of 
money, there is a private chest in my secretary, the other is at 
Saint Cloud, in Paris, and if you need money, and I am not 
at home, come hither, and I will show you the way to open the 
little door. Push the spring ; this is the way, and you will 
always find about a million there.” 

“ You are indeed a wonderful man,” said Gilbert, with a smile, 
“ but, you know, with my twenty thousand livres a year, I am 
richer than the king. And what are you about in Paris ?” 

“ Who knows ! establishing what you contributed to in the 
United States — a Republic I” 

Gilbert shook his head. 

“France has no tendency to Republicanism.” 

“ We will make it so.” 

“ The king will resist.” “ Possibly.” 

“ The nobles will appeal to arms.” “Probably.” 

“ What then will you do ?” 

“ We will not make a Republic then, but a Revolution.” 

Gilbert let his head fall on his breast. 

“ Know you who destroyed the Bastille, my friend ?” 

“ The people.” 

“ You do not understand, but take cause for effect. For 
five hundred years, counts, lords, princes, had been locked up 
in the Bastille, yet still it stood. One day, the king, in his folly, 
sought to imprison thought, which needs space and extent, in 
that place. Thought burst through the Bastille, and the people 
entered by the breach.” 

“ True,” murmured Gilbert ^ 


CAGLIOSTRO. 


17 


“ You remember what Voltaire wrote to M. de Chauvelin, 
March 2, 1764, about twenty-six years since/’ 

“ Tell me.” 

‘‘ Voltaire wrote : * All I see announces the seeds of a revo- 
lution, which certainly will come, and which I will not be 
happy enough to see. The French are slow, but they always 
succeed. Light has been gradually diffused, and one day there 
will be an outbreak. There will be a fearful clatter. I’he 
young are very happy ; they will see sights. What think you 
of things yesterday and to-day?” “Terrible !” 

“ What think you of what you saw ?” “ Awful !” 

“Well, Gilbert, we are only at the beginning. All things in 
this old world march to the tomb — nobility, royalty, all will 
find a tomb in an abyss.” 

“ I guess the nobility may, for it has given itself to gain ever 
since the famous night of August 4. Let us save our royalty, 
which is the palladium of the nation.” 

“ Those are fine words, dear Gilbert. Tell me if the palla- 
dium saved Troy, though. Save royalty ! Do you think royalty 
can be saved with ease when we have such a king ?” 

“ He is sprung from a great race.” 

“ Yes, a race of eagles transformed into paroquets. Before 
Utopians like you, Gilbert, save royalty, kings must make an 
effort for themselves. Is the king a representation of your 
ideal of the sceptre-bearer ? Think you Charlemagne, Saint 
Louis, Philippe-Augustus, Henry IV., Francis I., or Louis XIV. 
had those flabby cheeks, hanging lips, inexpressive e}es, and 
hesitating step ? They had not, but were men with nerve, blood, 
life, beneath their royal robes, and were net bastardised by con- 
stant transmission in one strain. That is a good radical idea, 
which these short-sighted people have forgotten. 

“To preserve animal and even vegetable life in vigour, 
Nature herself has prescribed the fusion of races — as the graft 
in the vegetable kingdom is the preserver of beauty and grace, 
marriage in man, between parents too closely connected, causes 
individuals to decay. Nature suffers, languishes, and degener- 
ates, when several generations of the same blood succeed each 
other; but, on the contrary, becomes revived and invigorattd 
by the infusion of a new element. Look at the heroes who 
found dynasties and the sluggards who end. Henry HI., the 
last Valois, and Gaston, the last Medici, the Cardinal of York, 
the last Stuart, and Charles VI., the last Hapsbourg. Going 

a 


t3 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


back, Louis XV. and Marie de Medici ; Henry IV. is four^ 
times his an :estor, and Mary de Medici five times his 
ancestress. Passing to Philip III. of Spain, and Margaret of 
Parma, the former is three times his ancestor and the latter h’s 
ancestress. I, who had nothing better to do, have counted all 
this, and have come to this conclusion : out of thirty-two ances- 
tors, there are, in Louis XV. ’s case, six Bourbons, five Medici, 
eleven Hapsbourgs, three Savois, three Stuarts, and a Danish 
princess. Subject the best horse or dog on earth to such treat- 
ment, and in the fourth generation you will have either a pony 
or a cur. How the devil can it be otherwise with us men ? 
You are a mathematician, doctor, and how do you like my cal- 
culation ?” 

“ I tell you, my dear wizard,” said Gilbert, rising and taking 
his hat, that your calculation reminds me that my place is 
with the king.” 

Gilbert advanced towards the door. 

Cagliostro asked him to stop, and said : ** Hear me, Gilbert ; 
you know I love you, and to spare you trouble, would expose 
myself to intense agony. Let me advise you.” 

“What?” 

“ Let the king escape and leave France, now, while he can. 
In three months, perhaps, in six, in a year, it will be too late.” 

“ Count,” said Gilbert, “ would you advise a soldier to leave 
his post because it is dangerous ?” 

“ Were the soldier so situated, hemmed in, surrounded, if his 
life, especially, compromised that of half a million of mm, I 
would. You, even you, Gilbert, will tell the king so, when, 
alas, it will be too late. Wait not until to-morrow, but tell him 
to day. Do not wait until evening, but tell him now.” 

“ Count, you know that I am a fatalist. What will be, will 
be ; as long as 1 have influence the king will remain in France. 
We will meet in the contest, and, perhaps, rest side by side on 
the battle-field. Well, then the world will say, no man, intelli- 
gent soever as he may be, can escape from his destiny.” 

“ I sought you for the purpose of telling you this, and you 
have heard me. Like Cassandra’s prediction, mine is vain. 
A lieu.” 

“ Listen, count ! Do you tell me here, as you did in America, 
that you are able to read the human fate in the face ?” He 
stood at the threshold. 


CAGLTOSTRO. 


*9 


“ Gilbert, certainly, as you read the course of the stars, while 
common men fancy they stray at hazard.” 

“ Listen ! some one knocks at the door.” “ True.” 

“ Tell me who knocks at that door ? When and what death 
he will die ?” 

“ I will ; let us admit him.'' 

Gilbert went towards the end of the corridor, and his heart 
beat in a way he could not express, though he said “ it was 
absurd for him to have faith in this charlatanism.” 

The door opened. A man of distinguished bearing, tall, and 
with his face impressed with an expression of great kindness, 
entered the room, and looked at Gilbert with an expression 
not devoid of anxiety. 

“ Good morning, marquis,” said Cagliostro. 

“ Good morning, baron,” said the stranger. 

As Cagliostro saw the latter looked anxiously at Gilbert, ne 
said, “ Marquis, this is a friend of mine. My dear Gilbert, this 
is one of my clients, the Marquis de Favras.” 

They bowed — then, speaking to the stranger, he said. 

Marquis, be pleased to await me a few moments only in that 
room.” 

The marquis bowled again, and left. 

“ Well,” said Gilbert, 

“ You wish to know how he will die ?” 

Did you not promise to tell me ?” 

Cagliostro gave a strange look, and glanced arouna to see 
that no one was listening. 

“ Have you ever seen a nobleman hung ?”- “ No." 

“ Well, it is a curious spectacle, and you will be on the Place 
de Grève on the day of De Favras’ execution.” 

Then, taking Gilbert to the gate, he said : ‘‘ Listen ! when 
you wish to see me without being seen or seeing, push this knob 
thus,” and he showed the secret. “ Excuse me 1 those who 
have not long to live should not be kept waiting.” 

He left, leaving Gilbert amazed at the statement which had 
excited his surprise but not conquered his incredulity. 


so 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


CHAPTER III. 

FATALITY. 

In the interim the king, queen, and royal family continued the 
journey to Paris. 

'•On the way, the dauphin became very hungry, and asked 
for bread. The queen looked around her, and nothing was 
more easy, for every bayonet had a loaf on its point. She 
looked for Gilbert He, as we know, was with Cagliostro. Had 
he been there, the queen would not have hesitated to have 
asked for a piece of bread. She would not, however, ask one 
of the men of the people she hated so. 

My child,” said she, “ wait until evening ; we have none 
now, but to-night may perhaps.” She wept. 

The dauphin reached his little hand towards one of the 
loaves the people had on the points of their bayonets, and said: 
“ But those men have.” 

“ Yes, my child, it is theirs, and not ours. They got it at 
Versailles, for they say they have had none for three days at 
Paris.” 

‘‘ For three days !” said the child. “ Have they eaten nothing 
for three days, mamma ?” 

“ No, my child,” said the queen. 

** Then,” said the dauphin, “ they must be very hungry.” 

Ceasing his complaints, he sought to sleep. Poor prince ! more 
than once before his death he begged in vain for bread. At 
the barrier there was another halt, to celebrate the arrival 
After about half an hour of cries, clamour, and dances in the 
mud, an immense hurrah was given ; every gun, whether borne 
by man, woman or child, was fired in the air, without any 
attention being paid to the fact that they were charged with 
ball, and after a second or two, the missiles were heard falling 
in every direction like hail. 

The dauphin and his sister wept. They were so frightened 
that they forgot their hunger. The march was resumed, and 
the Place de I’Hotel de Ville was reached. There a square was 
formed to keep back all the carriages except the king’s, and all 
but the royal household, and the National Assembly, and the 
Hôtel de Ville was entered. 

The queen then saw Weber, her confidential valet, making 
every effort to enter the palace. Weber was an Austrian, and 


FATALITY. 2 1 

had come with her from Vienna. She called to him. He 
came. 

Seeing at Versailles that the National Guard on that day had 
the post of honour, Weber, to give himself an importance which 
might enable him to be useful to the queen, had put on the 
uniform of the guard, and to the dress of the private had added 
the decorations of the staff. The equerry had lent him a horse. 
Not to arouse suspicion, he kept out of the way, with the inten- 
tion, however, of approaching if the queen needed him. Being 
called, he came. 

“ Why do you seek to force the lines, Weber ?” said the 
queen, preserving her usual familiarity with him. 

“ To be of use to your majesty.” 

“You can do nothing in the Hôtel de Ville, but elsewhere 
you may be very useful. On the Tuileries, where we are not ex- 
pected, and whither you must go, or we shall find neither lights, 
supper, nor a bed.” 

Bailly, one of the three popular men of the day, whom we 
have seen appear during the first excursion of the king, now, 
when bayonets and cannon displaced the bouquets of flowers 
and garlands, awaited the king and queen at the foot of a throne 
prepared for them. It was badly made, and trembled beneath 
the velvet that covered it. It was appropriate. 

The Mayor of Paris now almost echoed his previous address. 

The king replied : “ I always come with pleasure and confi- 
dence among the people of my good city of Paris.” 

The king spoke in a low tone, for he was faint with fatigue 
and hunger. Bailly repeated his words aloud, so that all might 
hear. 

He, however, either voluntary or not, forgot the words “and 
con6dence.” 

Her bitterness was delighted at an opportunity to give vent 
to itself. 

She said, “ Excuse me, Mr. Mayor, you either did not hear, 
or your memory is bad.” 

“ Madame ?” said Bailly, with that star-gazing eye which read 
heaven so well and earth so badly. 

The queen said: “The king’s remark was that he always 
came with pleasure and confidence among the people of his 
city of Paris. Now, as people may doubt if he came with 
pleasure, it is important that it be known that he came with 
confidence.” 


22 


THE COUNTESS DE CHAENV, 


She ascended the steps of the throne, and sat down to near 
the addresses of the electors. 

In the meantime, Weber reached the Tuileries. 

About ten, the wheels of the royal carriages were heard, and 
Weber cried out : “ Attend the king !” 

The king, queen, dauphin, Madame Royale, the Princess 
Elizabeth, and Andrée entered. 

M. de Provence had gone to the Luxembourg. 

The king looked gladiy around, and as he entered the room, 
observed through a half open door that supper was- ready. 

At the same time an usher entered, and uttered the usual 
ceremonial phrase : “ The king is served.” 

“ Ah, Weber is a man of great resources ; madame, tell him 
from me, I am much pleased with him.” 

I will not fail to do so, sir.” 

When the children had supped, the queen asked leave to 
retire to her room. 

“ Certainly, madame, for you must be fatigued. As, however, 
you will need food before to-morrow, have some prepared in 
time.” 

The queen left with the children. 

The king sat at table and finished his supper. Madame 
Elizabeth, the devotion of whom not even the vulgarity of 
Louis XVL could change, remained with the king, to render him 
those little attentions which even the best domestics neglect. 

The queen, when in her room, breathed freely. She had 
ordered all her ladies not to leave Versailles unordered, and 
she was alone. 

She set about finding then a chair or sofa, purposing to put 
the children in her own bed ; but entering an adjoining room, 
and seeing that it was comfortably w-armed and lighted, was 
enchanted to observe two clean beds in it. The children being 
asleep, she sat down at a table, on which there w^as a can- 
delabra with four lights. 

The table had a red cover. 

She looked through the fingers of the hand on which she 
rested her head, but saw nothing but the red cover. 

Twice or thrice something in the red glare made her shake 
her head mechanically. She seemed to feel her eyes become 
filled with blood, and her ears to tingle. 

Then like a tempest her past life swept before her. 

She remembered that she was born Novem.ber Sth, 1755, 


FA TA L/TV, 


23 


the day of the Lisbon earthquake, when fifty thousand lives 
and two hundred churches were overthrown. 

She remembered that the first room she slept in at Strasbourg 
was hung with a tapestry representing the murder of the inno- 
cents, and amid the dense light of the fire she saw the blood 
streaming from their wounds, while the faces of the ruffians 
assumed so dread and terrible an expression, that she called 
for aid, and at dawn left a city which had given her so painful 
a reception in France. She remembered that on her way to 
Paris she paused at the house of the Baron de Taverney, where 
for the first time she met the wretch Cagliostro. He had 
shown her a terrible object, an unknown and terrible machine 
of death, and afterwards a head, her own, rolling from it. 

She remembered that when Madame Lebrun painted her 
portrait, she was then a young and beautiful woman ; by some 
accident she had given her the air of the Henrietta of England, 
wife of Charles 1. She remembered that when she first came to 
Versailles and placed her foot on that marble pavement, which 
on the evening before she had seen running with blood, a ter- 
rible clap of thunder had been heard, preceded by a flash which 
divided the whole sky from right to left in so terrible a manner, 
that the Due de Richelieu, not easily frightened, shook his 
head, and said, “ The omen is bad.” 

As she saw all this, she fancied that a reddish vapour rose 
before her, and became every moment more dense. 

The darkening of the air became so apparent, that the queen 
looked up and saw that without any apparent cause one of the 
lights was out. She trembled ; the light yet smoked, and she 
could not comprehend why it was out. 

As she looked at the light with amazement, It seemed to her 
that the next one g^ew more and more pale, that the white 
blaze became red, and then burned blue. Then the light grew 
thinner and larger, and appeared about to leave the wick ; at 
last it quivered for a moment as if under some invisible influence, 
and disappeared. 

The queen gasped, as she saw the quivering light, and insen- 
sibly her hands approached more and more near the table. 
She saw it go out, and threw herself back in a chair, and placed 
her hands on her brow, which was damped with perspiration. 

She remained thus for about ten minutes, and when she 
looked around, saw that the blaze of the third light w^as being 
bedimmed as the others had been. 


24 


Tim COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


At first, Marie Antoinette thought she was dreaming, or 
under the influence of some fearful hallucination. She sought 
to rise, but felt herself chained to her seat. She sought to call 
her daughter, whom ten minutes before she would not have 
awakened for the world. Her voice, however, stuck in her 
throat. She sought to look away, but the third expiring light 
seemed to fascinate her. At last, as the second had changed 
colour, the third took different hues, floated to and fro from 
right to left, and went out. 

The queen was so terrified that she regained her utterance, 
and sought, by talking to herself, to regain the courage she had 
lost. 

All at once, without undergoing the changes of the others, 
as the queen was saying, “ I do not make myself uneasy about 
the three, but if the fourth go out, woe ! woe to me !” it went out. 

She uttered a cry of agony, and rising from her seat in the 
dark, tossed her arms around, and fell on the floor. 

As her body struck the floor, the door opened, and Andréa 
appeared at the entrance. 

She paused for a moment, as if, in this obscurity, she saw a 
kind of vapour, and as if she heard the rustling of a shroud in 
the air. 

Looking about her, she saw the queen prostrate on the 
floor, and unconscious. 

She stepped back, as if her first intention had been to retire. 
Soon, however, she controlled herself, and saying nothing, and 
asking no question (it would have been in vain to do so), 
with a strength of which she might have been supposed incap- 
able, lifted her up, and without any other light than that of the 
two candles which shone from her room through the door, 
placed her on the bed. 

Taking a flacon of salts from her pocket, she placed it to 
the nose of Marie Antoinette. 

Notwithstanding this, the queen had fainted so completely, 
that not for ten minutes did she breathe. 

A deep sigh announced that consciousness had returnedi 
Andrée felt inclined to go, but, as before, a sense of conscious- 
ness retained her. 

She merely withdrew her arm from the head of Marie An- 
toinette, whom she had lifted up, that no portion of the cor- 
rosive liquid might get on the queen’s face or chest. She 
removed the salts also. 


FATALITY. 


25 


As soon as it was done, her head fell back on the pillow, 
and the queen seemed again plunged in a faint almost as pro- 
found as the one she had just recovered from. 

A shudder passed over the whole of the queen’s frame. She 
sighed, and opened her eyes, while Andrée, cold, passionless 
as a statue, again attended her. 

Gradually she recalled her ideas, and, seeing a woman near 
her, threw her arms around her neck. She cried out ; “Ah ! 
defend — save me.” 

“ Your majesty, surrounded by your friends, needs no de- 
fence, and you have now recovered from a fainting fit.” 

“ The Countess of Charny !” said the queen, when she saw 
who she had embraced. She withdrew her arms and almost 
repelled Andrée. 

Andrée did not fail to observe both the feeling and the 
action. 

For a moment she remained in an almost impassable state. 

Stepping back, she says : Does the queen order me to assist 
in undressing her ?” 

“No, thank you, countess,” said the queen, in a tone of 
emotion, “ I will do so alone. Return to your room ; you 
must have need of sleep.” 

“I will return to my room, not to sleep, however, but to 
watch your majesty.” 

Having bowed respectfully, she retired with a step not unlike 
that a statue would have. 


CHAPTER IV. 

SEBASTIAN. 

On the same evening, when the events we have spoken of 
took place, a not less strange affair took place in the college 
of the Abbé Fortier. 

Sebastian Gilbert disappeared at about six in the evening, 
and, notwithstanding every effort made, could not be found. 
Every one was questioned, but none could tell. 

Aunt Angelica alone, as she left the church, where she had 


25 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNŸ. 


been fixing the benches, had seen him go down the little street 
between the church and prison, apparently towards the hchis. 

This did not make the abbé less uneasy, but, on the contrary, 
more unnappy. He was not unaware that strange hallucinations 
sometimes seized young Gilbert whenever the woman he called 
his mother appeared. And more than once, the abbé had fol- 
lowed him, when under the influence of this vertigo he seemed 
inclined to go too far into the fields, where he was afraid he 
would be lost, and on such occasions would send the best 
runners of the college after him. 

The child had always been found panting, and almost 
^exhausted, leaning against some tree, or resting on some bank 
beside some beautiful hedge. 

Sebastian, however, had never had this vertigo late in the 
day. No one had ever been obliged to run after him at night. 

Something extraordinary, therefore, must have happened. 
But the abbé could not fancy what. 

To be more completely satisfied than the abbé, we will follow 
Sebastian Gilbert, and find out whither he went. 

Aunt Angelica was not mistaken. She had seen Sebastian 
Gilbert hurrying in the shade, and seeking as rapidly as pos- 
sible to reach the park. Thence he had gone to the pheasantry, 
and had proceeded down a lane which led towards Haramont. 

He went to find Pitou. 

But Pitou went out of one side of the village, as Sebastian 
entered the other. 

Pitou, in the simplicity of his nature, did not see the use of 
keeping a door closed, whether one be out or in. Sebastian 
knew Pitou’s room as well as he knew his own. He looked 
for a flint and steel, lighted the candle, and waited. 

Sebastian was in too great agitation, however, to wait quietly 
or long. 

As time passed, he went to a rickety table, on which was 
pen, ink and paper. On the first page were the names and sur- 
names of the thirty-three men who formed the effective force of 
the national guard of Haramont, and who were under Pitou’s 
orders. 

Gilbert carefully lifted this sheet, which was the chef d’œuvre 
of the commandant’s writing, for he did not disdain, in order 
that things might be correctly done, to play the orderly 
sergeant. 

On the second sheet he wrote : 


SEBASTIAI/. 


27 


“ Dear Pitou, 

“ I am about to tell you that eight days ago I overheard 
a conversation between the Abbé Fortier and the Vicar of 
Villers-Cotterêts. It seems the Abbé Fortier connives with 
aristocrats at Paris, and told the vicar that a counter revolu- 
tion was being prepared. 

“So we heard about tne queen who put on a black cockade 
and trampled the tricolour in the dust 

“ This threat of a counter revolution, according to what we 
heard about the events that followed the banquet, made me 
uneasy on my father’s account, for as you know he is opposed 
to the aristocrats. Things now, though, are far worse. 

“ The vicar returned to see the curate, and, as I was anxious 
about my father, I thought I would hear all about what I got 
an inkling of by accident. 

“ It seems the people went to Versailles, and massacred 
many persons, among them M. Georges de Charny. 

“ Fortier added : 

** ‘ Let us speak low, lest we annoy little Gilbert. His father 
was there, and may have been among the victims.’ 

“ You see, Pitou, I heard no more. 

“ I slipped out of my hiding-place, unseen, went through the 
garden to the Castle Square, and hurried to ask you to take 
me back to Paris, which I know you would willingly do if you 
were here. 

“ As, how'ever, you may not be back for some time, having 
gone probably to fix your nets in the forest, which will keep 
you till morning, I am too anxious to wait. 

“ I will then go alone. Be at ease, for I know the way. 
Besides, I have yet two louis left of the money my father sent 
me, and I will take a place in the first carriage I meet. 

“ Your loving 

“ Sebastian, 

“ P. S. — I have written a long letter, first, to explain to you 
why I go, and in the second, because I hoped you would return 
before I finished. 

“ But you did not. Good-bye until we meet again. If my 
father be unhurt, I will return. 

“ Make the Abbé Fortier easy about me, or at least do not 
do so until to-morrow, lest he should pursue me,** 

“ Well, as you will not come, adieu.’* 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


âS 


As Sebastian knew how economical his friend PitOU was, he 
put out the candle and left. 

The lad then, entirely engrossed by his undertaking, set out 
for Lorgny. He passed the village and reached the broad 
ravine which led thence to Valenciennes, and which drains the 
ponds of VValue : at Valenciennes, he reached the high road, 
and when in the plain began to walk more rapidly. He did 
not slacken his pace or leave the centre until he came to a 
brief eminence where the two roads to Paris and Cressy 
divided. 

When coming from Paris he had not noticed the separation, 
and now did not remember which he should take. 

He paused undecided. 

He looked around to see if anything would tell him v/hich 
he should take. This he could have done by day, but it was 
impossible at night. Just then he heard the gallop of two 
horses. 

He prepared to stop and ask the wayfarers, and accordingly 
advanced to address the first. 

The latter, seeing a man leave the road-side, put his hand in 
his holster. 

Sebastian saw him do so. 

“ Sir,” said he, “ I am not a robber, but a poor lad, whom 
recent events at Versailles force to ^o to Paris to look for his ^ 
father. I do not know whicliwïoad to take. Tell me, and you 
will do me a great favour.” 

The servant came up. 

‘‘ Sir,” he said, “ do you recognise that lad ?** 

No, yet it seems to me ” 

“ How, sir, do you not recognise young Sebastian Gilbert, 
who is at school with the Abbé Fortier ? 

“ Yes, who often goes with Pitou to the farm of Made* 
moiselle Catherine.” 

“ You are right.” 

Turning round, he said, “ It is you, Sebastian?” 

“ Yes, M. Isidor,” said the child, who knew to whom he 
spoke. 

“ Tell me, then, why are you here at this hour?” 

** I am on my way to Paris, to see if my father be dead or 
alive.” 

“ Alas I child,” said the gentleman sadly, “ I go for the 
same purpose, but am certain of all,” 


SEBASTIAN 


29 


Yes î Iknow, yonr brother.” 

“ One of niy brothers, George, was killed yesterday, at Ver- 
sailles.” 

“ Ah ! M. de Charny.” 

*■ Well, my child,” said the latter, “ since we go for the same 
purpose, we must not separate, for you, like me, must go to 
Paris.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ You cannot go on foot.” 

“ I will not go far, for to-morrow I will take a seat in the first 
carriage I find, and go as far as possible to Paris in it.” 

“ But if you meet none?” “Then I must go on foot.” 

“You can do something bcitter than that; get down, Bap- 
tiste, and help Sebastian up.” 

“ Thank you, it is useless,” and, active as a boy, he sprang 
up behind the count. 

The three men and the two horses galloped off, and disap- 
peared behind the hill of Grand Ville. 

They continued on to Daumartin, which they reached at six 
o’clock. 

All needed refreshments, and, besides, it was necessary to 
find post-horses. 

After having left Daumartin at noon, they reached the 
Tuileries at six in the afternoon. 

There a delay took place. M. de Lafayette had posted the 
guards, and having taken charge of the king’s safety, in these 
troublous times, punctiliously discharged his duty. 

When Charny, how'ever, mentioned his name, and his 
brother’s, he was introduced into the Swiss court-yard with 
Sebastian, and thence they went into the central yard. 

Sebastian wished at once to go to the house in the Rue St. 
Honoré where he had left his father, but Charny told him that 
as the doctor was now royal physician, he W’ould be found more 
probably in the palace than elsewhere. 

Isidor was introduced by the state staircase, and an usher 
made him wait in a saloon hung with green cloth, dimly lighted 
by two candelabras. 

The usher went at once to ask for the Count de Charny and 
the doctor. After about ten minutes he came back and said 
the Count de Charny was with the queen. 

Nothing had happened to the doctor, and it was though.; 
that he was with the king. 


30 


THE COUNTESS DE CIIARNY, 


Sebastian breathed freely. He had not any occasion to 
dread anything, for his father was unhurt and safe. 

“The Viscomte de Charny,” said an usher. 

«Well, I am he.” 

« Is expected by the queen.” 

Wait for me, Sebastian, at least until your f,ither comes. 

, / Kemember, I must be responsible to him for you.” 

Isidor followed the usher, and Sebastian again sat down. 

At ease in relation to his father's health and about himself, 
for he was sure he would be forgiven by the doctor for what 
he had done, he began to think of the Abbé Fortier and of 
Pitou, and of the anxiety both would feel on account of his 
letter. 

He did not see how, after all the great delay they met with 
on the road, it had happened that Pitou had not overtaken 
them with his long legs. 

By the simple association of ideas with Pitou, he thought of 
his usual home, of the tall trees, the many pathways, the blue 
horizon, and then the strange visions he so often had had be- 
neath the old trees of the vast forest. 

He thought of her he had so often seen in his dreams, and 
but once only, he fancied, in reality, in the wood of Satory, 
where she appeared and disappeared, like a cloud borne away 
in a calash by a magnificent steed. 

He remembered the deep emotion the apparition always 
caused, and, half lost in that dream, murmured, “ Mother ! 
mother ! mother !" 

Suddenly the door through which Isidor had gone opened 
again, and a female form appeared. 

So perfectly was the figure in harmony with the thoughts 
that flitted by, that, seeing his dream realized, the lad trembled. 

His feeling, however, was far more intense when he saw 
both the shadow and reality. 

The shadow of dreamland, the reality of Satory. 

He sprang at once to his feet. 

His lips opened, his eyes rolled, and his pupils expanded. 

He panted, but sought in vain to speak. 

The woman passed proudly, majestically by, and seemed not 
to notice him. 

She crossed the hall diagonally, opened the door opposite to 
that through which she had entered, and disappeared in the 
corridor. 


SEBAST/AAT. 


31 


Sebastian saw that he was about to lose, and hurried after, 
her. He looked carefully, as if to be sure that she had gone 
from the door she had entered to the one whence she passed, 
and overtook her before her silken robe had disappeared. 

Hearing his steps, she had walked quickly, as if she feared 
pursuit. 

Sebastian hurried, but the corridor was long and dark. He 
was afraid his vision would desert him. 

She, hearing his footsteps approach, hurried away the more 
rapidly, but looked back. 

Sebastian uttered an exclamation of joy. It was indeed she. 

The woman, seeing the lad follow her, she knew not why, 
hurried to the ladder, and rushed down the steps. 

Scarcely had she descended a single story, than Sebastian 
stood at the top, and cried, “ Lady ! lady !” 

The voice filled her heart with strange sensations : it seemed 
that a blow half pleasant, half painful, had struck her heart, and 
passing through her veins, had filled her bosom with emotion. 

Understanding neither the appeal nor the emotion, she in- 
creased her gait, and finally ran. 

The lad was, however, too near for her to escape, and they 
reached a carriage together, the door of which a servant kept 
open. She sprang in, and sat down. 

Before, however, the door could be shut, Sebastian got be- 
tween her and the servant, seized her skirt, and kissing it pas- 
sionately, exclaimed, “ Ah, lady ! lady !” 

The woman then looked at the child who had first frightened 
her, said, in a gentler tone than usual, but yet maintaining 
something of fear : “ Well, why do you follow me ? why did 
you call me ? tell me what you wish for me to do ?’’ 

“ I wish, I wish to kiss you,” said our panting child ; and 
low enough to be heard only by her, added, “ I wish to call 
you mother r 

The young woman uttered a cry, took the head of her child 
in her hands, and as if l*y a sudden revelation, which made her 
know some great mystery, pressed her burning lips on his brow. 

Then, as if she feared some one would deprive her of tiie 
child she had so strangely found, she drew him into the car- 
riage, put him on the other side of her, and closed the glass of 
the door, which she pulled to with her own hands. 

“ Drive to my house , No. 9, Rue Coq-Heron,” said she> 
‘‘ first door from Rue Platrière.” 


32 THE COUNTESS DE CflARNY, 

Turning to the child, she said : “What is your name?^* 

“ Sebastian.” 

“ Here, here, Sebastian, to my heart !” 

Then, sinking back as if she were about to faint, she said : 
“ Oh, what new sensation is this ? Can it be happiness ?” 

The whole drive was but one exchange of kisses between 
mother and son. 

This child, for never for a moment did she doubt that it was 
hers, which had been taken away on that fearful night of an- 
guish and disgrace : this child, which had disappeared without 
tlie ravisher having left any trace but the print of his feet in 
the snow ; this child, whom she had hated and cursed, because 
she had not heard its first cry, its first moan ; whom she had 
sought, besought, and asked for everywhere ; whom her bro- 
ther had followed, with Gilbert, beyond the seas ; whom for 
fifteen years she had regretted, and despaired ever meeting; ot 
whom she thought no more, but as one loved and dead ; at 
the moment she least expected, it was miraculously found, and, 
strange to say, himself recognised and pursued her, calling her 
mother, pressed her to his heart, without having ever seen her, 
loved her with true filial love as she him with a mother’s heart. 
From his lip, pure from the contamination of any kiss, she 
regains all the pleasures of a wasted life, and feels it when she 
first kisses him. 

There is, then, above the head of men, something more than 
the void in which worlds revolve. There is in life something 
more than chance and fate. 

She had said Rue Coq-Heron, No. 9, first door from Rue 
Platrière. It was a strange coincidence that after the lapse of 
so many years brought the child to the very spot where he 
was born, where he drew the first breath of life, -and whence 
he had been taken by his father. 

This little house, bought by old Taverney, when some ease 
bad been engrafted in his family by the high favour with which 
the queen honoured him, was kept in onier by an old porter, 
who apparently had been bought with the house. It was a 
•resting-place to the countess when in Paris. 

Six o’clock struck as tlie porte cochère opened to the driver’s 
call, and they were at the door of the house. 

Giving the driver a piece of money twice the amount of his 
fare, she rushed, followed by the child, into the bouse, the 
door of which she closed carefully. 


SEBASTIAN, 


33 


At the door of the saloon she paused. It was lighted cheer- 
fully by a light which burned in the grate, and by two candles 
on the mantlepiece. 

Andrée drew her son to a kind of chaise long, on which were 
concentrated the double light of the candles and of the fire. 

With an explosion of joy, in which, however, there yet lin- 
gered something of doubt, she said ; “ My child, is it indeed 
you ?” 

“ My mother !” said Sebastian, and his hear^ expanded into 
dew-like tenderness, as he leaned against Andrée’s bead’ .g 
bosom. 

And here ! here !” as she looked around and saw that she 
was in the same room in which she gave birth to him, and saw 
with terror the door whence he had been taken. 

Here !” said Sebastian, “ what means that mother ?” 

“That you were born here, where we sit; and I thank the 
mercy of God, which, after fifteen years, has so miraculously 
restored you.” 

“Yes, miraculously ; had I not feared for my father’s life, I 
would not alone and at night have set out for Paris. I would 
not have doubted which of the two roads to take. I would 
not have waited on the high road and asked M. Isidor de 
Charny. He would not have known and taken me to the 
palace of the Tuileries. I would not have seen you as you 
crossed the greenroom, and run after and joined you. I would 
not, in fine, have called you mother. It is a pleasant word tc 
say.” 

At the words, “ Had I not feared for my lather’s life,” 
Andrée felt a sharp pain run through her heart. She shut her 
eyes and drew back. 

At the words, “ M. Isidor would not have known and taken 
me to the palace,” her eyes opened, and she thanked God with 
them. That her husband’s brother should restore her child 
was indeed strangely miraculous. 

At the words, “ I would not have called you mother. It is 
a pleasant word to say,” she again remembered her happiness, 
and clasping Sebastian again to her heart, said : “ Yes, you are 
right ; there is, perhaps, but one more so, ‘ My child, my 
child!”’ 

There was a moment of silence, during which she pressed 
her lips again and again on his brow. 

Andrée suddenly started up, and said, “ It is impossible foi 

3 


THE COUNTESS DE CH ARN Y. 


34 

ali to be thus mysterious ; you explained how you came hither, 
but have not told me how and why you knew and ran after 
me — why you called me mother ?” 

“Can I tell you that?” said Sebastian, looking at Andrée 
with an ineffable expression. “ I do not know myself. You 
talk of mystery ; all that relates to me is mysterious.” 

“ But, then, something told you when I passed !” 

“ Yes, my heart.” “Your heart?” 

“ Listen, mother, I am about to tell something strange.” 

Andrée drew yet nearer to her child, and looked ud to 
heaven in thankfulness for the child thus restored to her. 

“ I have known you ten years.” 

Andrée trembled. 

“ Do you not understand ?” 

She shook her head. 

“ Let me tell you. I sometimes have strange dreams, which 
my father calls hallucinations.” 

The name of Gilbert on her child’s lips, passed like a dagger 
through her heart. 

“ I have seen you twenty times, mother.” 

“ How so ?” “ In the dreams of which I spoke just now.” 

Andrée thought of those strange dreams which had endan- 
gered her life, and to one of which Sebastian owed his existence. 

“ Do you fancy, mother, that even when in childhood I 
played with village children my impressions were like those 
of the rest, and related to real palpable things? As soon as I 
left the village, passed the last gardens, and went into the wood, 
I heard by me the rustling of a robe. I reached forth to grasp 
it, but my fingers closed in air, and the phantom left. Then, 
though invisible, it gradually became distinct, and a transparent 
vapour, like that with which Virgil surrounds the mother of 
Æueas when she appeared to him in Carthage. The vapour 
grew dense, and assumed human form, which was that of a 
woman gliding, rather than walking, over the ground. Then a 
strange, unknown, and irresistible power took hold of me, and 
I was borne into the depths of the forest, where I followed this 
phantom with open hands, without its pursuing, or my being 
ever able to overtake it, until it vanished away by degrees. 

“ It seemed to suffer as much as I did, that the will of heaven 
separated us, for as the phantom left it looked back, and when 
no longer sustained by its presence I sank exhausted on the 
ground.” 


SFBAST/AJSr. 


35 


Thîsl^*n(! of second life of Sebastian, this waking dream, was 
too much like what Andrée had herself experienced for her not 
to recognise her son. 

“ Poor child,” said she, embracing him. “ It was in vain that 
hatred separated us ; God insensibly brought us together. 
Less happy, though, than you, I saw you neither in dreams nor 
in reality. When, though, I passed you in the green room. ^ 
cold shudder seized me. When I heard your steps behind n • 
something like dizziness occupied both my heart and mind. 
When you called me madame, I had nearly stopped, and almost 
fainted when you said mother. When you touched me I knew 
you.” 

“ Mother, mother, mother !” said Sebastian, as if to console 
Andrée for not having heard that word for such a time. 

“ Yes, your mother 1” said she, with a transport which it was 
impossible to describe. 

“ And now that w'e are met,” said the child, ** since you are 
satisfied, we will never part again.” 

Andrée trembled. She had seized the present, and half 
closing her eyes to the past, neglected the future. 

My poor child,” said she, with a sigh, “1 would indeed 
bless you, if you could work a miracle.” 

“ Let me. I will arrange all.” 

“ And how ?” 

“ I do not know. What circumstances separated you from 
my father?” 

Andrée grew pale. 

“ W hatever though they be, they will be effaced by my 
prayers, or, if need be, by my tears.” 

Andrée shook her head. 

“ Never, never,” said she. 

Listen,” said Sebastian. “ One day my father said, ‘ Child, 
never speak to me of your mother,’ and then I knew all the 
wrongs of the separation were on his side. Listen, my fath.er 
adores me !” 

The hands of Andrée, which clasped her child’s, loosened. 
The child seemed, and probably did, not notice it. 

He continued : ‘‘I will prepare him to see you. I will say 
hjw happy you have made me; and I will take you by the 
hand, and say, ‘ How beautiful she is !’ ” 

Andrée pushed him away, and rose. 

The child looked on with amazement 


3 —^ 


36 


THE COUNTESS DE CH A EN Y, 


She was so pale that he was frightened. 

“ Never !” said she, “ never !” 

The child now shrank back, for on her face were the terrible 
lines with which Raphael described fallen angels. 

“ And why not ?” 

At thSse words, as when two clouds are driven together by 
the wind, the lightning fell. 

“ Why ? you ask me why ? Poor child, you know nothing !” 

“ Yes,” said Sebastian, firmly, “ I ask why !” 

“ Well,” said Andrée, who found it impossible to repress the 
pain of the serpent’s wounds in her heart, “ because your 
father is a base villain.” 

Sebastian sprang from his seat, and stood erect before 
Andrée. 

“ Do you speak thus of my father, madame ? Of Dr. Gilbert, 
who has educated me, and to whom I owe everything : whom 
alone I know ? I was wrong, madame ; you cannot be my 
mother.” 

He rushed towards the door. 

Andrée made him pause. 

“ Listen : you can neither know, feel, nor judge.** 

“ No, no, I feel that I do not love you.” 

Andrée uttered a cry of agony. 

Just then a noise was heard outside, the door opened, and a 
carriage stopped. 

Such a shudder passed over Andrée’s limbs, that it was trans- 
fused to his soul. 

“ Wait,” said she, ** and be silent !” ^ 

Perfectly subdued, Sebastian waited. 

The door of the antechamber opened, and footsteps were 
heard. 

Wiihout eyes, ears, or sound, Andrée stood like a statue. 

“ Whom shall I announce to the countess ?” 

“ The Count de Charny, and ask if the countess will see 
me. ” 

“Ah!” said Andrée, “go into that room, child, into that 
room. He must not see you, or know that you live.” 

She pushed the terrified boy into the next room, and shut 
the door. 

As she did so she said : “ Remain there. When he is gone 
I will tell you, — no, no, I will kiss you, and then ^ ou will really 
know I am your mother.” 


SEBASTIAN. 


37 


Sebastian replied with a kind of sigh. 

At that moment the door opened, and then the old porter 
appeared. The countess saw a human form behind him. 

“Show the count in,” said she, in as firm a tone as she 
could. 

The old man withdrew, and, hat in hand, the count appeared 
in the room. 

As he was in mourning for his brother, who had been killed 
two days before, the count was dressed in black. 

His mourning, like Hamlet’s, too, was not on his tace, but 
in his heart, and his pale countenance attested the tears he had 
shed, and his suffering. 

The countess saw all this at one glance. Handsome faces 
even look better in tears. Never had Chirny looked so well. 

She shut her eyes, and threw her head back, as if to give 
herself time to breathe, and placed her hand on her heait, 
which felt as if it would break. 

When she opened her eyes, but a second after she had 
closed them, she saw Charny in the same place. 

“ Pardon me, madame, but is my unexpected presence an 
intrusion ? I am ready, and, as the carriage waits, can go as I 
came.” 

“ Not so,” said Andrée, quickly. “I knew you w^ere safe, 
but am not the less rejoiced to see you after the terrible events 
that had occurred.” 

“ Then you were kind enough to ask about me ?” said the 
count. 

“ Certainly. Yesterday, and this morning I heard you 
were at Versailles. They told me you were this evening with 
the queen.” 

Were the last w’ords intended as a reproach, or meant they 
nothing ? 

It was evident that the count himself did not knew what 
they meant, and thought for a moment. 

“ Madame,” said he, “ religious duty kept me yesterday and 
to-day at Versailles. I look on the duty as sacred, and that in 
the queen’s situation, took me, as soon as I could reach Paris, 
to her presence.” 

Andrée now sought to distinguish the real significance of his 
words. 

Thinking tnat she really owed an answer to his first \vords. 
she said, “Yes, sir, I knew the terrible loss/' 


38 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


“ Yes, madame, as you say, the death of my brother is a ter- 
rible blow to me. You, luckily, cannot understand it, having 
known poor George so slightly. One thing would console me, 
if anything couUl, that poor George has died as Isidor will, as 
I will die, probably, doing his duty.’* 

The words, “as I will die, probably,” touched Andrée 
deeply. 

“Alas, sir, and do you then think affairs so desperate that 
other sacrifices of blood are needed to appease divine wrath ?” 

“ I think, madame, the final hour of kings, if not come, is 
near at hand, and that if the monarchy falls, it will be accom- 
panied by all who have shared its splendour.” 

“ True, and when the day comes, sir, believe it will find me, 
like you, prepared for every devotion.” 

“ Ah ! madame, you have, in by-gone days, given too strong 
proofs of devotion, that any, and least of all I, should doubt 
you in the future; and perhaps have I less reason to doubt 
yours than mine, which for the first time has hesitated to obey 
an order of the queen.” 

“ I do not understand you, sir.” 

“ When I came from Versailles, I received an order at once 
to present myself to the queen.” 

“ \h !” said Andrée, smiling sadly. “ It is plain, like you, the 
queen sees the sad and mysterious future, and wishes to collect 
around her men on whom she can rely.” 

“You are mistaken, madame; not to join me to, but to 
remove me from her, did she send for me.” 

“ To separate you from her ? * said the countess, drawing a 
little nearer to the count. 

“ Excuse me,” s lid she, seeing that the count during the 
whole conversation yet stood at the door, “ but I keep you 
standing.” She pointed to a chair. 

As she spoke, she sunk back exhausted on the sofa Sebas- 
tian had left ; she could stand no longer. 

“Separate,” said she, with an emotion not devoid of joy, as 
she thought the queen and Charny about to be separated. 
“And why?” 

“ To go on a mission to the Count of Artois and the Duke 
of Bourbon, at Turin.” 

“ And you accepted ?” 

Charny looked fixedly at Andrée, and said at once, “ No, 
madame,” 


SEBASTIAN 


Andrée grew so pale that Charny advanced towards her to 
aid her, but she recalled her strength as she saw him come. 

“ No !” added she, “ no 1 you said no to an order of the 
queen.” 

“ I replied that at this moment I thought my presence more 
useful at Paris than at Turin, where any one could discharge 
the mission proposed as an honour to me. That I had another 
brother just arrived, whom I proposed to place at her majesty’s 
service, and who was ready at once to set out in my place.” 

“ And certainly the queen was gratified at the proposition ?” 
said Andrée, with a degree of bitterness she could not conceal, 
and which did not escape Charny. 

“ No, madame ; my refusal seemed to wound her deeply. 
I should have been forced to go, had not the king come in, and 
the matter been referred to him.” 

“ And the king sustained you !” said Andrée, wdth an ironical 
smile. “ The king is kind indeed, and, like you, thought you 
should remain at the Tuileries.” 

Charny did not frown. 

“ The king said my brother Isidor was well calculated for the 
mission, especially as, having come to court for the first time, 
and being almost unknown, his presence was not likely to be 
missed, and required the queen to exact me not to leave you 
at such a crisis.” ^ 

“ Leave me ! The king said not leave me !" 

“I repeat his own words, madame. Glancing from the 
queen to me, he said, ‘And where, too, is the Countess 
Charny ?’ 

“ ‘ Sire,^ said the queen, ‘ Madame de Charny left the palace 
about an hour ago.’ 

“ ‘ How ?’ said the king, ‘the countess left the palace ? But 
to return soon ?’ added the king. 

“ The queen replied, ‘ I think not. 

“ ‘ So the countess has gone. Whither, madame, do you 
know ?’ 

“ I do not,^ said the queen. ‘ When my friends leave me, I 
let them go, and never ask them whither.’ 

“‘Ah 1’ said the king, ‘ some woman’s quarrel. M. de Charny, 
I would speak with the queen. Await me in my room, and 
present me to your brother. He will start for Turin this very 
evening. I agree with you, De Charny; I need you, and will 
keep you.’ 


40 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


“ I sent for my brother, who had come, and who awaited me 
in the green saloon.” 

At the last word, Andrée, who had almost forgotten Sebastian 
in her husband’s story, remembered all that had passed between 
her sofi and herself, and looked sadly at the door of the room 
in which he was. 

“ Excuse me, madame,” said Charny ; “ I annoy you with 
matters with which you do not feel interested, and you doubt- 
less wonder why I am here.” 

“ Not so, monsieur ; what you have said interests me deeply: 
for your presence here, after all the fear I have felt for you, 
in thus proving you to be safe, cannot but please me. Go on 
then, sir ; the king told you to await him, and you sent for your 
brother ?’^ 

“ VVe went to the king, and as the mission was important, he 
spoke of that first. (He was not ten minutes behind u?.) The 
jbject of the mission was to tell their royal highnesses what 
had taken place. A quarter of an hour after my brother was 
on the road. The king walked moodily about for awhile, and 
then pausing in front of me, said : ‘ Count, do you know what 
has taken place between the queen and countess ?’ 

“ ‘ No, sire,’ said I ; ‘ something must have taken place, for 
I found the queen in a terrible humour towards her, and very 
unjustly, too, it seemed to me.’ 

“ ‘ At all events,’ said the king, ‘ if the queen does not know 
where the countess is, you must find out.’ I said I was hardly 
more informed than the queen, but that I knew you had a 
household in Rue Coq-Heron, whither you, without doubt, had 
gone. ‘ Go thither, count I give you leave until to-morrow, 
provided you bring her back with you then.’ ” 

Charny looked so fixedly at Andréa, that, seeing she could 
not meet his glance, she closed her e3'es. 

“‘Tell her,”’ said Charny, continuing to speak in the king’s 
name, “ ‘ that I will have her here, even if I go myself for her, 
and find rooms, certainly not so large as those she had at 
Versailles, but large enough for man and wife.’ Thus it was 
that I came at the king’s instance. You will, I know, excuse 
me.” 

“ Ah ! sir,*’ said Andrée, rising quickly, and placing her 
hands in his, “ can you doubt it ?” 

Charny seized her hands, and placed them to his lips. 
Andrée cried out as if his lips h^d been hot iron, and sank on. 


SEBASTIA.V. 


41 


the sofa. Her hands were locked in his, so that she could not 
extricate them, and, without intending it, he was beside her. 
Having heard some noise in the next room, she hurried to the 
door so rapidly that the count, not knowing to what movement 
to attribute the brusquerie of her conduct, arose, and again was 
•before her. 

Charny leaned on the back of the sofa and sighed. Andrée 
let her head rest on her hands ; the sigh of Charny had touched 
the very depth of her heart. What then passed in the heart of 
the young woman is indescribable. Having been married for 
years to a man whom she adored, without that man, constantly 
occupied by another woman, being aware of the terrible sacri- 
fice she made in marrying, she had, with the denial inspired by 
the double duty of a wife and subject, seen and borne all, and 
concealed all. But, for some tin e, it had seemed to her that 
some words of her husband were gentler, and some glances of 
the queen more stern, so that the impression was not lost on 
her. During the days which had rolled by, the terrible days 
full of terror to so many, alone, perhaps, of all the terrified 
courtiers, Andiee had experienced some pleasant emotions ; 
Charny seemed anxious about her, looked uneasily for her, and 
met her with joy ; a light pressure of the hand communicated 
a sympathy unseen by those who surrounded them, and estab- 
lished a community of thought l^tween them. These were 
delicious sensations, unknown to the ky frame and diamond 
heart which had ever experienced only the pain of love, and 
its nnrequitedness. 

All at once, just as the poor creature had regained her child, 
and again become a mother, something like the dawm of love 
w^as awakened on the horizon of a heart previously obscure and 
clouded. It was a strange coincidence, and proved that true 
happiness was not for her. The two circumstances destroyed 
the effect of each other ; the return of the child depriving her 
for ever of the husband’s love, and the love of the husband 
making that of the child impossible. 

Charny could not see this when the cry escaped from 
Andrée’s lips, when she repelled his advances, and thrust him 
into an abyss, from which it seemed impossible for him to 
extricate himself. He thought it was produced by dislike. 
Not so, it was the effect of fear. 

Charny sighed, and renewed the conversation where it had 
been abandoned. 


42 


THE COU.VTESS DE CHAR N Y. 


** What, madame, must I say to the king ?” 

At the sound of his voice she quailed ; then, lifting up he: 
clear blue eyes, she said : 

“Sir, tell his majesty that I have suffered so much since I 
belonged to the court, that the queen has had the kindness to 
permit me to retire, and I do so thankfully. I was not born to 
live in the world, and in solitude have always found rest, if not 
happiness. The happiest days of my life were those I passed 
as a girl in the Castle of Taverney, and later, those I spent in 
the convent of St. Denis, with that pure daughter of France 
known as Madame Louise. With your permission, sir, I will 
inhabit this pavilion, which is full of memories, which, though 
sad, have yet some soothing.” 

The permission Andrée asked was given by the count 
willingly, like a man not anxious to grant a prayer, but to obey 
an order. 

“ Then, madame, you have decided ?” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Andrée, gently, but firmly. 

Charny bowed again. 

“ And now, madame,” said he, “ I have one favour to ask 
you, to be permitted to visit you here.” 

Andrée looked at Charny, with the clear blue eye ordinarily 
cold and impassive, but now full of surprise and amazement. 

“ Certainly, sir !” said she; “ but as I see no one, when you 
are not required at the Tuileries, and have a few moments to 
spare, I shall always be happy to see you, if you will spare them 
to me.” 

Charny had never seen so much charm in Andrée’s eye. He 
had never heard so much tenderness in her voice. Something 
penetrated his veins like the velvet tremor cf a first kiss. 
Charny would have given a whole year to have sat by Andrée, 
though she had previously repulsed him. Timid as a child, 
however, he dared not, without encouragement, do so. 

Andrée would have given, not a year, but an existence, to 
have seen the one from whom she had so long been separated 
by her side. Unfortunately, they did not know each otner, and 
each was motionless. 

Charny w'as the first to break the silence, which one capable 
alone of reading the heart could have translated. 

“ You say you have suffered much at court, madame. Has 
not the king always treated you with respect amounting to 
admiration, and the queen almost idolized you ?” 


SEBASTIAN. 


43 


**Ah ! yes, sir, the king has ever been very kind to 
me.” 

“ Permit me to observe, madame, that you replj^ only 
to a part of my question ; has the queen been less kind than 
the king ?” 

The lips of Andrée closed, as if they v/ould have refused an 
answer. She said : 

“ I make no charge against the queen, and would be unjust 
were I to refuse to do her full justice.” 

“ I say this, madame,” said Charny, “ because I see that for 
some time the friendship she bore you has been somewhat 
diminished.” 

“ Possibly, sir ; and on that account, as I had the honour to 
say, I wished to leave the court.” 

“ But, madame, you will be very lonely and isolated.” 

“ Have I not always been, as a child, a girl, and as ” 

She paused, seeing that she was going too far. 

“ Go on, madame,” said Charny, 

“You have seen my idea, sir; I was about to say as a 
wife.” 

“Am I so happy as to have you reproach me on that 
account ?” 

“ Reproach, sir !” said Andrée, quickly. “ What right, great 
God, have I to reproach you ? Think you, I forget the cir- 
cumstances of our marriage ? N§ ; those who at the foot of 
the altar do not sw^ear eternal love, but, as we did, eternal 
indifference and separation, have no right to reproach each 
other for violation of the marriage vow.” 

Andrée’s words wrung a sigh from the heart of Charny. 

“ I see, madame,” said he, “ that your determination is fixed, 
but, at least, let me ask you, how you are to live here ?” 

Andrée smiled sadly. 

“ My father’s household,” said she, “ was so poor, that, com- 
pared with it, this pavilion, naked as it seems, is more luxurious 
than anything I have been used to.” 

“ But the charming retreat of Trianon, Versailles.” 

“Ah ! I knew I would have to relinquish them.” 

“You wall at least have here all you need.” 

“ I shall find all I am used to.” 

“ Let me see,” said Charny, wLo wished to form an idea 
of the room she was to occupy, and who was examining every- 
thing. 


44 


THE COUNTESS DE CIIARNY, 


What do you wish to see, sir ?” asked Andrée, rising slowly, 
and looking anxiously in the direction of the chamber. 

“ But if you are not very humble in your wishes, madame, 
this pavilion is not a home. 1 passed through one ante- 
chamber, and I am now in the saloon. This door” (he opened 
one on the side) “leads into a chamber, and that, I see, into a 
dining-room.” 

Andrée rushed between the count and the door, and fancied 
that she saw Sebastian. 

“ Monsieur,” said she, “ I beg you not to go further.” 

An 1 she closed the passage. 

“Ah ! I understand : this is the door of your bed-chamber.^ 

“ Yes, sir,” muttered Andrée, half stifled. 

Charny looked at the countess, and saw that she was trem- 
bling and pale. Terror was never more evident than in the 
expression of her face. 

“ Ah ! madame, 1 was aware that you did not love me, but 
was not aware that you hated me !” 

Unable to repress his feelings in Andrée’s presence any 
longer, he staggered for a moment like a drunken man, and 
rushed out of the room with a cry of agony which reached the 
depth of Andrée’s heart. 

The young woman looked after him until he had disappeared. 
With outstretched ears she listened as long as she could to hear 
his carriage wheels, which gradually became more indistinct, 
and then, arousing all her power, though she felt that her heart 
would almost break, and that she had not too much maternal 
love to combat this other love, she rushed into the room crying, 
“ Sebastian I Sebastian !” 

No voice replied to her, and her cry of agony had no echo. 

By the light of the lamp she looked around, and saw that the 
room was empty. 

She could, however, scarcely believe her eyes. 

She called Sebastian, again and again. 

The silence was unbroken. 

Then only did she see that the window was open, and that 
the current of air agitated the flame of the lamp. 

The same window had been found open when, fifteen years 
before, her son had first disappeared. 

“ True,” said she, “ did he not say I was not his mother?” 

Then she saw that at the moment she had regained them, 
she had lost both a husband and a child, and she threw herself 


SEBASTlAl^, 


45 


on her bed with arms outstretched, and her fingers convulsively 
grasped. Her strength and resignation were exhausted. 

She could but cry, weep, and appreciate her loss. 

Nearly an hour passed in this state of profound annihilation, 
in a total oblivion of the whole w'orld, and that wish for 
annihilation which the unhappy entertain — the hope tliat, 
Returning to nothing, the world will with it bear them away. 

All at once it seemed to Andrée that something more ter- 
rible than grief coursed through her veins. A sensation she 
had experienced but twice or thrice before, and which had 
always preceded great crises of her life, took possession of her. 
By a slow motion, independent of will, she slowly lifted herself 
up. Her voice died in her throat ; all her body, as if invo- 
luntarily attracted, became convulsed, and she fancied she could 
see that she was not alone. Her sight became fixed and clear ; 
a man who seemed to have passed the window still stood 
before her ; she wished to call, to reach out her hand to the 
bell-rope ; she felt the same inexpressible stupor she before had 
experienced in the presence of Balsamo. The man who thus 
fascinated her was Gilbert. 

Here came the father she hated, to replace the son she 
loved. 


M. » 

CHAPTER V. 

WHAT BECAME OF SEBASTIAN. 

The first sentiment of Andrée, w hen she saw Gilbert, w^as not 
only that of profound terror, but of invincible repugnance. 

Gilbert, on the contrary, entertained for Andrée, in spite of 
her contempt, scorn, and persecutions, not the ardent love 
w^hich led him when young to crime, but the deep passionate 
devotion which would have made a man do her a service, even 
at the peril of his life. 

The reason is, that he saw that all Andrée's troubles w^ere 
due to him, and that he owed her a sum of happiness equal to 
that of which he had deprived her. 

Andrée spoke first ; she said, “ What do you wish, sir ? How 
came you here, and why ? What wish you ?” 


46 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


“ I came to demand a treasure which is valueless to you, 
but inestimable to me. What do I wish ? To know how that 
child was borne away by you, and know what has become of 
him.” 

“ What has become of him ?” said Andrée. How do I 
know ? He fled from me. You have taught him thoroughly 
to hate his mother.” 

“ His mother !” said Gilbert. Are you really such ?" 

“ Ah !” said she, “ he sees my distress, he hears my cries, 
and asks if I am really a mother !” 

“ You do not know where he is?” 

‘‘ I tell you he fled from me. When I came to this room, 
in which I had left him, he was gone. The window was up, 
and he gone.” 

“ My God ! what will become of him ? How can he find his 
way through Paris ? It is a‘'ter twelve, too.” 

“ Oh !” said Andrée, “ think you that he is in danger ?” 

“ We will know, and from you,” said he. 

He stretched forth his hand. 

“ Monsieur !” said she, drawing back to avoid the magnetic 
influence. 

“ Madame, do not fear. I talk to a mother of her son, of 
the means to find him. To me you are sacred. Sleep, and 
read with your heart.” 

“ I do sleep.” “ Do you, with me, employ all the power 

of my will, or do you sleep voluntarily ?” 

“Will you again say that I am not Sebastian’s mother?” 

“ As the case may be. Do you love him ?” 

“Can he ask if I love the child I bore? Yes, I love him 
deeply.” 

“ Then you are his mother, madame, for you love him as 
I do.” 

“Yes !” said Andrée, sighing. 

“ You will reply voluntarily ?” “ Will you permit me to 

see him?” 

“ Have I not said that you were his mother, as I am his 
father ? You love him as I do, and shall see him.” 

“ Thanks,” said Andrée, with an expression of unutterable 
joy, and she clasped her hand.s. “Now ask — I see.” 

“ What ?” 

“ Follow him since he left, that I may not lose track of him.** 
Well, where did you see him ?” “ In the green room.” 


m/AT BECAME OF SEBASTIAN, 


47 


** Where did he follow you ?’’ “ Down the corridor.” 

‘‘Where did he join you ?'’ “At the carriage.” 

“ Whither did you take him ?” “ To the next room.’* 

“ Where did he sit ?” “ By me.” 

“ How long ?” “ Half an hour.” 

“ Why did he leave you ?” 

“ Because the noise of a carriage was heard.” 

“ Who was in the carriage ?” 

Andree hesitated. 

“ Who was in tlie carriage ?” said Gilbert, in a firmer tone, 
and a positive expression of will. 

“ The Count de Charny.” 

“Where did you hide the child?” “In that room.* 

“ What did he say as he left you ?” 

“That I was not his mother.” 

“ Why ?” Andrée was silent. 

“ Why? Speak, for I will have it so.” 

“ Because I said ” 

“ What ?” “ Because I said you were a vile rascal.” 

“ Look at the heart of that poor child, madame, and see the 
wrong you have done.” 

“ My God ! my God ! Forgive m^", my child !” 

“ Did M. de Charny suspect the child was yours ?” “ No.’* 

“ Are you sure ?” “ Yes.” 

“ Why did he not remain ?” 

“ M. de Charny does not live with me.” 

Andrée was silent for a moment. Her eyes became fixed, 
and she attempted to see into darkness. 

“ My God r said she, “ Charny, dear Charny I” 

Gilbert looked at her with surprise. 

“ Alas !” said she, “ it was for the purpose of returning to me 
that he refused this mission. He loves me.” 

Gilbert began to read confusedly the terrible drama he first 
penetrated. 

“ And do you love him ?” 

She sighed. 

“ Why do you ask me that question ?” said Andrée. 

“ Read my heart.” 

“ Yes, your intention is good. You would make me forget 
the wrong you have done me, by conferring happiness on me. 
1 would not, however, owe happiness to you. I hate, and will 
continue to do so for ever,” 


48 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY 


“ Poor human nature,” murmured Gilbert ; is so much hap- 
piness set aside for you that you can refuse this ? You love 
him?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Since when Y' 

“ Since I have known him. Since the day he came from 
Versailles in the carriage with the queen and myself.” 

Then you know what love is?” said Gilbert, sadly 

“ I do,” said the young woman, “ know that love is given us 
too as a measure of woe.” 

“ d rue ; you are now a woman. A rough diamond you have 
been, set by the hands of the terrible lapidary, grief. Let us 
return to Sebastian.” 

“ Ah ! yes, let us do so. Do not let me think of M. de 
Charny. The idea of him troubles my faculties, and, instead 
of my child, I will, perhaps, follow the count.” 

“ True ; wife forget the husband, mother rememoer the child 
alone.” 

A half gentle expression at once took possession of her face 
and whole frame, entirely displacing the one she usually bore. 

‘‘ Where was he while you talked with your husband ?” 

“ Here, at the door.” 

“ Did he hear the conversation ?” “ A part of it.” 

When did he resolve to leave the room ?” 

“ At the moment when the count ” 

She paused. 

“ When M. de Charny kissed my hand, and I cried.' 

“ You see him, then ?” 

“ Yes, with pleated brow, his lips fixed, and clenched hands.'* 

“ What does he do ?” 

“Sees if there be no door opening into the garden. Seeing 
there is none, goes to the window, opens it, looks out, glances 
at the saloon, springs out and disappears.” 

“ Follow him.” “1 cannot.” 

Gilbert passed his hand in front of Andrée's eyes. 

“ You know that for you there is no darkness. Look 

“ Ah ! ah ! Runs down the alley by the wall, he opens the 
gate unseen, and gains the Rue Platriere. He stops, and 
speaks to a woman.” 

“ Listen ; do you hear him ?” “ I do.” 

“ What does he ask ?” “ The way to Rue Saint Honoré” 

** Yes ; 1 live there. Poor lad ; he awaits me there.” 


W//.4 T BECAME OF SEBASTIAN 


45 

^ No r s lid she, shaking her liead with an expression of 
great sadness. “ He did not go in. He did not wait.’' 

“ Whither, then, did he go ?” 

“ Let me follow him, or I shall lose him.” 

“ Follow him, follow him,” said Gilbert, who saw that Andrée 
foretold some misfortune for him. 

“ I see him ! I see him !” 

“Well?” “ He is in Rue Grenelli ; he is at Rue St. 

Honoré; he crosses the Place Palais Royal at full speed: he 
asks the road again ; he hurries on ; he is in Rue Richelieu, in 
Rue des Frondeurs, Rue New St. Roch. Stop, stop, my poor 
child ! Sebastian, do you not see that carriage driven down 
Rue Sourdière ? I see, I see the horses !” 

She muttered a terrible cry, rose up, and maternal agony 
\vas imprinted on her brow. 

“Ah r said Gilbert, “if anything happens to him, remember 
it will recoil on you.” 

“ Ah !” said Andrée, without hearing or listening to anything 
said by Gilbert. “Thank the God of heaven, the horse has 
thrown him out of the way of the wheels ! I see him senseless, 
but not dead. No, no, not dead ! He has only fainted. Help, 
help ! my child !” 

With a cry of agony, Andrée fell back again on the bed. 

Great as was Gilbert’s wish to know more, he granted to the 
trembling woman the repose she needed so much. 

He feared, if he excited her too much, a fibre of her heart 
^yould break, or that she would burst a blood-vessel. 

As socn, however, as he thought he could question her safely 
he said, “ Well ?” 

“ Wait ! wait ! There is a crowd around him. Ah, for mercy's 
sake let me go ! It is my son, Sebastian. My God, is there 
no surgeon ?” 

“ Oh, I will go !” said Gilbert. 

“ Wait !” said Andrée, seizing his arm ; “ the crowd opens ; 
here is one. Quick, sir, quick ! You see he is not dead ; you 
must save him !” 

She uttered a cry of agony. 

“ What is the matter ?” asked Gilbert. “ It is not a man, 

but a gnome, a dwarf, a vampire— hideous, hideous !” 

“ Madame, madame, do not lose sight of Sebastian.” 

“Ah !” said she, with a fixed expression of the lip and eye, 
“ do not be uneasy, I will not” 


4 


so 


THE COUNTESS DE C/IARN7, 


** What does the man do ?” 

“ He carries him away. He goes into Rue SourJiëre. He 
enters the lane of St. Hyacinthe. He approaches a low door 
which is half open. He ascends a stair-way, and places him 
on a table covered with papers, both printed and manuscript. 
He takes off Sebastian’s coat, rolls up the sleeve, and binds his 
arm with ligatures, which a woman, dirty and hideous as the 
man, is bringing him. He takes out a lancet, and is about to 
bleed him. Ah ! I cannot bear to see my child’s blood.” 

“ Well ?” said Gilbert, “ look, and count the steps.” 

“ I have. Eleven.” 

Look at the door, and tell me what you see strange about 

it?” 

“ A little opened ; closed by a cross bar grating.” 

“Well! that is all I need.” 

“ Harry, and you will find him there.” 

“Do you wish to awake at once and to remember? or not 
until to-morrow, after having forgotten all ?” 

“ Arouse me now ! Let me remember 1” 

Gilbert passed his hands in front of Andrée’s eyes, breathed 
on her brow, and said, “Awake 1” 

The eyes of the young woman immediately became bright, 
and her limbs lost their rigidity. She looked at Gilbert almost 
without fear, and continued when awake the advice given him 
in sleep. 

“ Hurry ! hurry !” said she, “and take him from that man, 
of whom I am afraid.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE MAN OF THE PLACE LOUIS XV. 

Gilbert's anxiety required no stimulation. He remembered 
what Andrée had told him of his son’s route, and hurried after 
it, and reached the lane of St. Hyacinthe. 

Here he began to inspect the locality, and in the third door, 
by the grated cross, recognized Andrée’s description, which was 
too exact to admit a doubt He knocked, but no one answered. 
He knocked again. 


THE MAN CF THE PLACE LOUIS XV. Si 

He fancie d that he heard a timid and suspicious step ap- 
proach him, by the stair-way. 

He knocked again. 

“ Who is there?” said a female voice. 

“ Open the door \ I am the father of the wounded child 
whom you received.” 

“Open, Albertine !” said another voice. “It is Dr. Gilbert.” 

“ Father, father !” said a th rd voie , in which Gilbert recog- 
niz; d his son’s. 

He breathed freely. 

The door was opened, and he ascended the steps, uttering 
his thanks as he went. 

At the last step he found himself in a kind of cellar, lighted 
by a lamp, and covered with papers, as Andrée had said. 

In the dark, and on a kind of pallet, Gilbert saw' his son, who 
appealed to him with outstretched hands. Powerful as Gilbert’s 
self control was, paternal love triumphed over philosophical de- 
corum, and he clasped his child to his breast warmly, though 
he took care not to wound his bleeding arm or sore chest 

After a long paternal kiss, in which all was communicated, 
though unutiered, Gilbert turned to his host 

He stood erect, with his legs apart, one hand resting on the 
table, the other on his hip, looking by the light of the lamp at 
the scene which passed before him. 

“ Look, Albertine,” said he, “ and thank the chance w'hich 
has enabled me to be of service to one of my confreres.” 

As the surgeon spoke, Gilbert looked around, and for the 
first time looked at the shapeless being before him. 

A yellow and green light seemed to flash from his eyes, and 
declared that, like one of those persons pursued by I.atona, if 
not human, he w'as not a toad. 

Gilbert shuddered in spite of himself. He seemed in some 
dream to have already seen this man in a sea of carnage. 

He approached Sebastian, and clasped him more tenderly 
than before. 

He soon triumphed over this feeling, and going to the 
stranger, pressed his hand tenderly, saying. 

Receive my thanks, sir, for the preservation of my son’s life. 
Believe me, I speak truly, and from my heart.” 

“ Sir,” said the surgeon, “ I have done only what feelings and 
science inspired and required. As Terence says : 

‘Homo sum : humaui nihil a me alienum puto.* 

4—2 


52 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


“ My heart, too, is tender, and I cannot see even an insect 
suffer — certainly then I cannot see a man.” 

“ May I ask to what philanthropist I have the honour to 
speak ?” 

“ You do not know me, brother ?” said the surgeon, smiling 
with an air he wished to make insinuatory, but which was 
hideous. “Eh ! well — I know you are Dr. Gilbert, the friend 
of Washington and Lafayette.” He laid particular stress upon 
the last name. “ The men of America and France, the honest 
Utopians who made such magnificent theories about con- 
stitutional monarchy, addressed to his majesty Louis XVI., 
which his majesty Louis XVI. rewarded by sending you to the 
Bastile, directly you touched the soil of France. You wished 
to save him by sweeping away impediments in his future course. 
He sent you to prison as a reward. Royal gratitude I” 

On this occasion the surgeon laughed terribly. 

“ As you know me, sir, it is another reason why I repeat my 
questions, and ask your name in return.” 

“Ah, we became acquainted very long ago, sir. Twenty 
years ago, on a terrible night, you were then about as old as 
this child. You were brought dead, wounded and dying as he 
is. You were brought to me by Master Rousseau, and I bled 
you on a table covered with bodies and amputated limbs. On 
that terrible night, it is pleasant to remember, thanks to a knife 
that knows how far to enter, to cut, to cure, or to cicatrize, 
I saved many lives.” 

“ Oh !” said Gilbert, “you are Jean Paul Marat” 

In spite of himself, he drew back a pace. 

“ You see, Albertine, that my name has its influence!” 

And he burst into a malicious laugh. 

“ But,” said Gilbert, quickly, “ why are you nere, in this 
cellar, lighted only by a smoky lamp ? I thought you physician 
of Monsieur d’Artois.” 

“ I was his veterinary surgeon. The prince, however, has 
emigrated, and having no horses, needs no veterinary surgeon. 
Besides, I resigned, — I would not serve tyrants.” 

“ Why, though, are you here, in this cellar, — in this den ? 

“ Because I am a patriot, and denounce the ambitious in my 
writings. M. Bailly hates me, Necker fears me, Lafayette pur- 
sues me, and has put a price on my head. The ambitious 
dictator 1 From my cavern, I pursue, denounce, and brave the 
dictator. Do you know what has been done ?” 


THE MAN CF THE PLACE LG VIS XV. 


53 


"No,” naively said Gilbert. 

" He has had made in the Faubourg Saint Antoine fifteen 
thousand snuff-boxes with his portrait. I beg all good citizens 
to break them wherever they find them. It is the password, 
this, of a royalist plot. You do not know, that while poor 
Louis weeps hot tears at the follies the Austrian makes him 
commit, Lafayette conspires with the queen.” 

“ With the queen ?” said Gilbert, in thought 

“Yes, with the queen,” said Marat, sharply. “You will not 
say that she does not conspire. She distributed the other day 
so many ribands and white cockades, that white riband rose 
three cents a yard. The thing is certain ; I heard it from one 
of the daughters of Madame Bertin, the queen’s marcha?ide des 
tnodes^ her prime minister. That lady said, ‘ I have been all 
day at work with her majesty.’” 

“ And where do you denounce all that ?” 

“ In my paper, a journal I have founded, ‘ L’Ami du Peuple * 
or Le ‘ Publiciste Parisien,’ a political and impartial paper. To 
pjay for the paper and printing of the first number, I sold even 
the covering of the bed in which your child lies.” 

Gilbert did turn, and saw that Sebastian really lay on a per- 
fectly bare mattress, and that, overcome by fatigue and pain, 
he slept. 

The doctor approached him, to ascertain whether or no he 
had fainted. Reassured, however, by his regular respiration, 
he returned to Marat, who inspired the same interest called 
forth by a wild animal. 

“And who assists you?” 

“ Ah ! ha ! turkeys fly in gangs, — eagles fly alone. I am 
assisted by my hand and head. 

“ See you that table ? It is Vulcan’s forge, where thunder- 
bolts are made. Every day I write eight pages, which are sold 
in the morning. Sometimes eight pages will not suffice, and 
then I write sixteen. What I begin with large type, generally 
ends in small. Other journalists relieve each other at intervals 
and then suspend ; it is not my way : ‘ The Friend of the People’ 
always appears. It is not merely a name but a person. It is 
myself.” 

“ But how do you accomplish all this w'ork ?” 

“Ah, that is a secret between death and myself. I have 
given up ten years of my life, and she grants me days that need 
no-rest, nights that need no repose. My life is simple. I write 


54 


THE COUNTESS DE CHAR NY. 


all clay and all night. I.afayette’s police compels me to live in 
secret, and forces me to activity. At first it annoyed me, and 
was oppressive to me, — now I like it. I like to look at society 
through the miserable gratings of my cavern, through my dark 
cage. In the depth of night I reign over the living, and judge 
without appeal science and politics. With one hand I demolish 
Newton, Franklin, La Place, Monge, Lavoisier; with the other 
I make Bailly, Necker, and Lafayette tremble. I will over- 
throw all that. Yes, perhaps as Samson overthrew the Temple 
and buried himself beneath the ruins, I, too, ’may be crushed 
amid the fragments of the throne.’' 

This man repeated in a cavern, and in the rags of misery, 
nearly what Cagliostro had in embroidery said in the palace. 

But,” said he, ^‘popular as you are, why have you not at 
least procured a nomination to the National Assembly ?” 

“ Ah !” said Marat, almost at once, “ were I sustained as 
tribune of the people, by some thousands of determined men, 
I promise you that in six weeks the constitution would be per- 
fected, and the political machine proceed perfectly. Not a 
villain should dare to interfere with it — the nation would be 
free and happy, and in less than one year it would become 
flourishing, and remain so as long as I live.” 

The vain-glorious creature became transformed beneath 
Gilbert’s eye. His own eyes became blood-shot, as his yellow 
skin shone with sweat. The monster was great on account of 
his ugliness, as others are on account of their beauty. 

“ Ah !” continued he, resuming his thought, which enthu- 
siasm had interrupted. “I will not be tribune ; I cannot find 
the thousands of men I need. I have, though, writing mate- 
rials — pen, ink, and paper. I have readers and subscribers, who 
look on me as a prophet and an oracle. I have the people, 
the friend of whom I am, and whom lead trembling from, 
treason, from terror. In the first number of ‘ LhVmi du Peuple ’ 
I denounced the aristocrats, and said there were six hundred 
criminals in France, and that six hundred ropes were required. 
I was deceived nearly a month, for on the 5th and 6th of 
October I became enlightened, and saw that not six hundred, 
but ten thousand aristocrats should be destroyed.” 

Gilbert smiled. Fury which had reached this point sur- 
passed folly. 

“ Take care,” said he. “ There is not hemp enough in 
F rance to make the ropes you think so necessary.” 


THE MAN OF THE PLACE LOUIS XK 


55 

trust,” said Marat, “that more expeditious means will be 
tried. Do you know whom I expect in ten minutes to knock 
at my door?” 

“ No.” 

“A person of cur profession, a member of the National 
Assembly, whom you know by name, Citizen Guillotir ’* 

“ Yes,” said Gilbert. 

“ Do you know what Guillotin has invented ? A w’onderful 
machine which kills without pain. Death should be a punish- 
ment, not a torture. He has invented this machine, and ona 
of these days we will try it.” 

Gilbert shuddered. This w’as the second time he had heard 
of this machine. From the man in the cellar, and from Cagli- 
ostro in the palace. 

“Ah !” said Marat, as a knock was just then heard, “It is 
he. Go, Albertine, and open.” 

Amazed, terrified, a prey to something like swimming in the 
head, Gilbert went instinctively to Sebastian’s side, intending to 
take him in his arms and carry him home. 

“ Look,” said Marat, mechanically, “ at a machine which is 
self-acting, and neads but one man to put it in motion, which 
by changing the knife three times, can cut off a hundred heads 
a day, without any other sensation than a slight coolness about 
the neck.” 

“Ah ! is it you, doctor ?” said Marat, turning to a little man 
who had a box of the form and size of those which contain 
children’s toys in his hands. “ What have you there ?” 

“ A model of my famous machine, dear Marat. I am not 
mistaken,” said the little man. “ Is that Doctor Gilbert I see ?” 

“ It is,” said Gilbert, bowing. 

“ I am delighted, to see you ; you are not in the way at all, 
and I shall be glad to have the opinion of so distinguished a 
man on my invention. I must tell you, Marat, I found a very 
skilful carpenter, Guidon, to make my large machine. He asks 
five thousand francs for it, but no sacrifice is too great, in my 
opinion, for the benefit of man. In two months it will be com- 
pleted, and tried. Yes, I will, in the interim, propose the 
matter to the Assembly, and I hope they will approve the pro- 
position, and that you wall prepare the way in your excellent 
journal, though, indeed, my machine recommends itself, as \ou 
are about to see. A few lines in ‘ L’Ami du Peuple ’ will do no 
harnV 


56 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


“ Be easy about the matter/' said Marat, ‘‘ I will not only 
afford you a few lines, but an entire number.” 

“ You are very good, dear Marat, but I wish you to judge 
for yourself,” said Guillotin. 

He drew from his pocket a second box, about the size of 
the first, and a noise inside denoted that it contained something 
alive, or rather something anxious to get out. 

This noise was observed immediately by Marat’s quick ear. 

“ Ah, ha !” said the latter. “ What is that ?” 

** You shall see,” said Guillotin. 

Marat put his hand on the box. 

“ Be careful not to let them escape, for we cannot retake them. 
They are mic3, whom we are about to decapitate. What are 
you going to do. Doctor Gilbert ? Not go ?” 

“ Alas ! yes, sir,” replied Gilbert, “ to my great regret. But 
my son, wounded this evening by being knocked down in the 
street, has been relieved, bled, and dressed by Doctor Marat, to 
whom, under similar circumstances, I am indebted for my own 
life, and whom I again thank. The child needs a fresh bed, rest 
and care. I cannot, then, witness your interesting experiment.” 

“ But you will see the great experiment we will make t*vo 
months hence ? Will you not, doctor ?” 

“ I will.” 

“ I will remember your promise.” 

“ Doctor,” said Marat, “ I need not remind you to keep the 
place of my concealment a secret.” 

“ Oh 1 sir !” 

“Your friend, Lafayette, if he knew it, would have me shot 
like a dog, or hung as a robber.” 

“ Shot ! hung !” said Guillotin, “ all that will be done awry 
with. Shooting and hanging will disappear. There will be a 
quiet, easy, and instantaneous death established. A death so 
easy, that all men disgusted with life, and who wish to die like 
sages and philosophers, will prefer it to a natural one. Come, 
look at it, dear Marat, look at it.” 

Without attending any longer to Dr. Gilbert, Guillotin opened 
the large box, and began to arrange his machine with equal 
curiosity and enthusiasm. 

Gilbert took advantage of the opportunity to lift up Sebastian, 
who was yet asleep, and carried him away. 

Albertine again escorted him to the gate, which she carefully 
closed behind him. 


THE MAN OF THE PLACE LOUIS XV. 


57 

Once again in the street, he felt, by the cold on his face, that 
he was covered with perspiration, which the night wind was 
congealing. 

“ Oh, my God ! what is about to befall this city, whose cellars 
conceal, perhaps, even now five hundred philanthropists, occu- 
pied and busy in such discoveries as that I was so near seeing just 
now, and which, one day, will burst forth beneath the light of 
heaven.” 

From the Street de la Sourdière to the house of Gilbert, Rue 
St. Honoré, was but a step. 

Cold and motion had awakened Sebastian. He wished to 
walk, but his father would not consent, and continued to carry 
him. 

When the doctor came to the door, he placed Sebastian on 
his feet, for a moment, and knocked ; he had not long to wait 
in the street 

A coarse, though quick voice, was heard on the other side 
of the door. “ Is it you, M. Gilbert ?” said the voice. 

“ 7'hat is Pitou’s voice.” 

“Heaven be praised,” said Pitou, as he opened the door. 
“ Sebastian is found, and unhurt, I trust, M. Gilbert.” 

“ At least, without any serious accident,” said the doctor. 
“ Come, Sebastian.” 

Leaving to Pitou the care of closing the door in the face of 
the drowsy porter, who appeared in chemise and nightcap, with 
Sebastian in his arms, he began to go upstairs. 

Uneasy and afraid, Pitou followed. By his muddy and 
stained shoes, it was easy to see that he had just arrived, after 
a long journey. 

Gilbert thanked Pitou as a brave fellow should be thanked — 
that is, by a pressure of the hand, and as he thought that after 
a journey of eighteen leagues, and anxiety for six hours, the 
traveller ought to have some rest, he wished him good-night, 
and sent him to his bed. 

As for Gilbert, he did not wish to leave to another the care 
of watching and attending Sebastian. He himself examined 
the bruise on the breast of his child, and applied his ear to 
several places on his chest, and being assured that respiration 
was thoroughly free, he settled himself in an easy chair near the 
child, w’ho, in spite of much fever, sank quickly to sleep. 

But soon, remembering the uneasiness which Andrée must 
feel, according to that which he had himself experiencedi he 


THE COUNTESS DE CIIARNY, 


S8 

called his valet, and directed him to put at once into the post, 
so that it should reach her address early in the morning, a 
letter in which were written the following words : 

“ Re-assure yourself ; the child is found, and is not injured.** 


CHAPTER Vll. 

TRUCE. 

A WEEK had rolled away between the events we have just re- 
lated, and the day on which we again take the reader by the 
hand, and conduct him to the palace of the Tuileries, now the 
principal theatre of the great catastrophes about to be ac- 
complished. 

oil ! Tuileries ! fatal heritage, bequeathed by the queen of 
Saint Barthélemy, the foreigner, Catherine de Medicis, to her 
descendants and to her successors. Palace of giddiness, which 
attracts but to destroy, what fascination dwells in your gates, 
where all the crowned fools who wash to be called kings lose 
themselves : who believe themselves only really sacred so long 
as they are within thy walls, and w’hom thou castest out, one 
after the other, these as bodies without heads, and those as 
fugitives without crowns. 

Without doubt, there is in thy stones, chiselled even as the 
works of Benvenuto Cellini, some fatal malignancy ; without 
doubt some fatal talisman hath found a refuge ’neath thy roof. 
Look back on the last kings thou hast received, and say what 
thou hast done with them ! Of these five kings, one only has 
been dismissed by you to the tomb where his ancestois awaited 
him ; and of the four others whom history claims of thee, one 
has been delivered to the scaffold, and the three others to 
exile. 

One day a whole crowd wished to brave the danger and to 
establish itself in the place of the kings, as commissioner of the 
people, to station itself there, where the elect of monarchy had 
sat. From this moment giddiness seized it; from this mo- 
ment it destroyed itself. The scaffold devoured some ; exile 
swallowed up others ; and a strange /raternity reunited Louis 
XVI. and Robespierre, Collot d’Herbois and Napoleon, Billeaud, 
Varennes and Charles X., Vadier and Louis Philippe. 


'J'RUCE, 


59 


Oh, Tuileries ! Tuileries ! mad indeed will he be who shall 
dare to cross thy threshold, and attempt to enter where Louis 
XVI., Napoleon, Charles X., and Louis Philippe entered, 
for, sooner or later, he must pass out by the same door as they. 

And yet, gloomy palace ! each of them entered into thy bosom 
amid the acclamations of the people, and thy double balcony 
has seen them one after the other smile at these acclamations, 
confiding in the wishes and the vows that urged them on ; this 
has made those who sat on the royal dais, each of them severally 
labour at his own work, and not at that of the people ; one day 
the people, perceiving this, has caused them to be led to thy 
gates like unfaithful stewards, or has punished them like un- 
grateful commissioners. 

It was thus that after the terrible 6th of October, in the 
midst of mud, blood and shrieks, the pale sun of the morning 
discovered, as he rose, the court of the Tuileries filled by 
a people, moved at the return of their king, and elated to see 
him. 

All the day Louis XVI. received the constituted authorities ; 
during this time the crowd awaited without, sought him, and 
gazed through the window's ; he w'ho thought he perceived 
him raised a cry of joy, and pointed him out to his neigh- 
bour, as he said, “.Do you see him ? Do you see him? there 1 
there !” 

At noon he show'ed himself on the balcony, and the cheers 
and the bravoes were unanimous. 

In the evening he descended into the garden, and there were 
more than bravoes and cheers : there were emotions, there were 
tears. 

Madame Elizabeth, pious and naïve, pointed this people out 
to her brother, and said to him, “ It seems to me it is not 
difficult to rule such men.” 

Her lodging was on the ground floor. In the evening 
she caused the windows to be opened, and supped before the 
people. 

Men and w'omen looked on, applauded and saluted; the 
women especially. They caused their children to mount the 
window sills, ordering these little innocents to send kisses to 
the great lady, and to tell her how beautiful she was. 

The little children repeated, “ You are very, very beautiful, 
madame,” and with their little dimpled hands waved numberless 
kisses. 


6o 


THE COUNTESS EE CHAT NY, 


Every one said : “ The revolution is over : the king is 
rescued from Versailles, his courtiers and counsellors. The 
enchantment which kept him in captivity beyond his capital, 
in that world of automata, of statues, and box-wood forests called 
Versailles, is broken. Thank God ! the king is restored to life, 
activity and truth, — to real life ! Come, sire, among us ; until 
to-day surrounded as you were, aught but authority to err, — 
to-day, amid us, your people, you can do good.” 

The two most popular men in France, Lafayette and Mirabeau, 
again became royalists. 

Mirabeau had said to Lafayette, “ Let us unite, and save the 
king.” 

Lafayette was essentially an honest man, but had a narrow 
mind. He despised the character of Mirabeau, and did not 
comprehend his genius. 

He went to see the Duke of Orleans. 

Much has been said of his royal highness; even that at night, 
in a slouched hat, hiding his eyes, he had been seen to excite, 
brandishing a switch, the crowd collected in the marble court, 
inducing them to pillage the castle, and trusting that the grand 
finale would be death. 

To the Duke of Orleans Mirabeau was everything. 

Instead of uniting, with Mirabeau, Lafayette went to the duke 
and invited him to leave Paris. The duke hesitated, argued, 
contended, and became angry. 

Lafayette was so much of a king, that it was necessary to 
obey. 

“ And when do I return ?” 

“ When I think proper, prince, that you should.” 

“ Eut if, monsieur, I become \veary, and return without your 
leave, what will be the consequence ?” 

“ Then,” said Lafayette, “ I shall expect your royal highness 
will fight with me the next day.” 

The duke left, and did not return until he was sent for. 

Lafayette was not much of a royalist before the 5 th and 6th 
of October, when he really and sincerely changed his opinion. 
He had saved the king, and protected the queen. 

We become bound to persons by services w^e render them, 
not by those we receive. The^reason of this is, that men are 
rather proud than grateful. 

During the few days which passed, during which the new in- 
mates of the Tuileries had become established and resumed 



The Portrait of Charles I 










^ V». ; 

<'k '' ' ' '\ ^ V t 




f 


I 


\ 

,t 




* ■ » ' ". 


y 




r*T- 




TRUCE. 


6i 


tlieîr old habits, Gilbert, not having been sent for by the king, 
had not thought proper to visit him ; at last, his day of visit 
having come, he thought his duty would be an excuse, which 
he did not feel his devotion would 

Louis XVL, too, knew in his own heart, in spite of the pre- 
judices of the queen against Gilbert, that the doctor was his 
friend, if not absolutely the friend of royalty; the difference 
was unimportant. 

He then remembered that it was Gilbert's day of visit, and 
had ordered him to be introduced as soon as he cam.e. 

Scarcely had he crossed the door of the palace, than the valet 
de chambre arose, went to him, and accompanied him to the 
presence of the king. 

The king walked up and down, so immersed in thought that 
he paid no attention to the announcement. 

Gilbert stood silent and motionless at the door, waiting for 
the king to observe his presence. 

The object which interested him, and it was easily seen from 
his stopping from time to time to observe it, was the famous 
portrait of Charles I., by Vandyck, the same which is now at 
the Louvre, and which an Englishman proposed to cover with 
gold as its price. 

Charles I. is on foot under some of those rough hardy trees 
found on downs. A page holds his horse. The sea is in the 
distance. The head of the king is expressive of sadness. Of 
what did the unlucky Stuart think ? His predecessor was the 
beautiful and unfortunate Mary of Scotland, and his successor 
will be James II. 

Often the king paused before the picture, and with a sigh 
resumed the walk, which always seemed ready to terminate in 
one place — the picture. 

At last, Gilbert remembered that there are occasions when 
it is better to announce one’s self than to stand still. 

He moaned, the king trembled, and looked around. 

“ Ah, doctor, is it you ? I am glad to see you. How long 
have you been here?” ‘^Some moments, sire.” 

“ Ah !” said the king, again becoming pensive 

After a pause, he took Gilbert before the picture. 

Do you know this picture ?” “ Yes, sire.” 

“ Where did you see it ?” 

“ At the house of Madame du Barry.” 

“ Madame du Parrv ! Yes, that is it,” said the kin& 


62 


THE COUNTESS DE CH ARN Y, 


After another pause of some moments : “ Know you the 
history of this picture ?” 

“ The subject, or the picture itself, does your majesty speak 
of?” 

“ I speak of the history of the picture.” 

“ No, sire, I only know that it was painted in London, about 
1645 or 1646. I know no more, and am ignorant how it 
came into France, and how it is now in your majesty’s rooms.” 

“ How it did pass into France, I know : how it came here, I 
know not.” 

Gilbert looked at Louis XVI. with astonishment. 

“ Who has ordered it to be placed here ? Why is it here, or 
rather, why does it pursue me, doctor?” said Louis XVL; 
“ lurks there no fatality beneath this ?” 

“ A fatality certainly, if this portrait says nothing to you, sire, 
but a providence if it speaks to you.” 

“ How would you that such a portrait spoke not to a king m 
my situation, doctor ?” 

“ After having permitted me to speak the truth to you, will 
your majesty allow you to question you ?” 

Louis XVL seemed to hesitate a moment 

“ Question me, doctor,” said he. 

“ What does this portrait say to your majesty, sire?’* 

“ It tells me that Charles the First lost his head for having 
made war upon his people, and that James the Second lost his 
throne for having neglected his own.” 

“ In this case, the portrait is like myself, sire — it speaks the 
truth.” 

“ Well, then ?” asked the king, soliciting Gilbert with a look. 

“ Since the king has permitted me to question him, I will 
ask him what answer he will make to a portrait that speaks so 
loyally ?” 

“ M. Gilbert,” said the king, “ I give you my word as a gentle- 
man that I have resolved nothing, as yet; I shall take counsel 
of circumstances.” 

“ The people fear, lest the king should think of making war 
on them.” 

Louis XVI. shook his head. 

“ No, sir, no,” said he, “ I could not make war on my people 
without employing fortdgn swords, and I know the state of 
Europe too well to tempt me to do that. The king of Prussia 
offered to enter France with a hundred thousand men, but I 


TRL'CE. 


C3 

know the intriguing and ambitious spirit of this petty monarchy, 
which wishes to become a great kingdom, which pushes itseli 
into every dispute, hoping that through some dispute she may 
acquire a part of new Silesia. Austria, on her side, placed a 
hundred thousand men at my disposal, but I loved not my 
brother-in-law, Leopold, a double-faced Janus, whose mother 
caused my father to be poisoned. My brother of Artois pro- 
posed to me the assistance of Sardinia and Spain, but I put no 
trust in these two powers led by my brother of Artois ; he has 
about his person M. de Calonne, that is to say, the most cruel 
enemy of the queen. I know all that passes down there. In 
the last council, the question of deposing me and appointing a 
regent was discussed, who would probably be my other very 
dear brother, M. le Comte de Provence ; in the last one, M. 
de Condé, my cousin, proposed to enter France, and to march 
upon Lyons, although he might himself^ ultimately, ascend the 
throne. As for the great Catherine, that is another affair ; she 
limits herself to advice, she — she gives me advice which seems 
perfect, and is after all ridiculous. ‘ Above all, after what has 
passed during the last few days, kings,’ says she, ‘ ought to pur- 
sue their way without troubling themselves with the cries of the 
people, as the moon pursues her path regardless of the hayings 
of dogs.’ It seems that Russian dogs are satisfied with merely 
barking; oh that she would send and ask at Deshuttes, and 
at Varicourt, if ours do not bite as well.” 

“ The people fear lest the king should think of flying, of 
leaving France.” 

The king hesitated to reply. 

“Sire,” continued Gilbert, smiling^ “one is always wrong 
n taking in a literal sense a king’s permission. I see that I 
have been indiscreet, and merely express a fear.” 

The king placed his hand on Gilbert’s shoulder. 

“ Monsieur,” said he, “ I promised to tell you the truth, and 
I will. Yes, the suggestion was made, and I will tell you the 
whole truth. Yes, it is the opinion of many loyal subjects, who 
surround me, that I should escape, but on the night of the 6th 
of October when, weeping in my arms, and clasping her children 
in hers, and all of us expecting to die, she made me swear that 
I w^ould never fly alone, that we sit, escape, and live or die 
together. I gave my oath, and, sir, I will keep it ; now, as I 
do not think we could all fly together, without being taken 


64 


THE COUNTESS DE CH ARN Y, 


before we reached the frontier, again and again, we will not 
attempt to do so.” 

“ Sire, I am lost in admiration of the justness of your mind. 
Why cannot all France hear you, as I have done ? How the 
hatred which pursues your majesty would be mollified ! How 
all dangers would be removed !” 

“ Dangers !” said the king; “ think you that my people hate 
me ? Dangers ! You attach too much importance to sombre 
thoughts, with which that picture filled my mirid. I think I 
could tell you of greater dangers ï have undergone.” 

Gilbert looked at the king with an expression of deep melan* 
choly. 

“Think you not so, M. Gilbert?” asked Louis XVI. 

“ My opinion is that your majesty is about to engage in a 
contest of great severity, and that the 14th of July, and the 6th 
of October, are but the two first acts of a terrible drama, to be 
played before the nations of the world by France.” 

Louis XVI. became slightly pale, and said : “ I trust, sir, you 
are mistaken.” 

“ I am not mistaken, sire.' 

“ How, on a point of this nature, can you be better informed 
than I, who have both my police and counterpolice ?” 

“ Sire, it is true I have neither police nor counterpolice. My 
very profession, however, places me in contact both with the 
things of heaven and earth’s very core. Sire, what vve have as 
yet experienced is but an earthquake. We have yet to face 
fire, lava, and the ashes of the volcano.” 

“ You said face '( Had you not better say combat with V' 

“ I did, sire.” 

“You know my opinion of foreign lands. I will never 
invite them into France. What matters my life ? — I will sacri- 
fice it, unless the lives of my wife and children be in real 
danger.” 

“ I thank God, sire, that you entertain similar sentiments. 
No, sire, we need no foreign power — what is the use of them, 
as long as you have not exhausted your own resources ? You 
fear that you have been excelled by the revolution ?” 

“ I own I do.” 

“ Well, there are two ways to save both France and the king.” 

“ Tell me, sir,* and you will have deserved well of both.” 

“ The first is to place yourself at the head of the revolution, 
and to direct it.” 


TRUCE. 6$ 

•* They will drag me on with it, M. Gilbert. I do not wish 
to go.” 

“ The second, is to put a bit in its mouth strong enough to 
break it.” 

“ What bit is that, sir?” * Popularity and genius.” 

“ And who shall forge that combination ?” “ Mirabeau.'' 

He looked at Gilbert, as if he had misunderstood him. 

Gilbert saw there was a battle to be fought. 

The king turned towards the great Vandyck. “ If you felt 
the earth tremble beneath you, and you were told to rely on 
Cromwell ?” 

“ Charles Stuart would have refused, and rightly. There is 
no similarity between Cromwell and Mirabeau.” 

“ I do not know how you look at things, doctor, but to me 
there are no degrees of treason, and I find no difference between 
who is, and who is slightly a traitor.” 

“ Sire,” said Gilbert, with deep respect, but at the same time 
with invincible firmness, “ neither Cromwell nor Mirabeau are 
traitors.” 

“ What, then, are they ?” asked the king. 

Cromwell w'as a rebellious subject, Mirabeau a malcontent 
gentleman.” 

“ Why malcontent ?” 

“ On every account. Because his father shut him up in the 
Château dTf, and the Donjon of Vincennes. He was dissatis- 
fied with courts that sentenced him to death, with the king, 
who did not understand his genius and was mistaken in him.” 

“The genius of a politician, M. Gilbert, is honesty.” 

“ The reply, sire, is most apt and worthy of Titus Trajan, or 
Marcus Aurelius. Unfortunately experience contradicts it.” 

“ How so ?” 

“ Was Augustus, who divided the world with Lepidus and 
Anthony, killed Anthony to have it all himself, honest ? Was 
Charlemagne, when he placed his brother Carloman in a clois- 
ter, and who to destroy Witikind, almost as great a man as 
himself, cut off the heads of all Saxons longer than his sword, 
honest ? Was Louis XL, who revolted against his father, to de- 
throne him, and who inspired such terror to Charles VI L, of 
poison, that the prince died of hunger, honest ? Was Richelieu, 
who formed plots in the alcoves and galleries of the Place de 
Grève, and which had their denouement in the Place de Grève, 
honest ? Was Mazarin, who signed a treaty with the protector, 

5 


66 


THE COUNTESS DE CIIARNY, 


and who refused a half million and five hundred men to 
Charles IL, and also drove him from France, honest? Was 
Colbert, who betrayed, accused and sold Fouquet, his protector, 
and who, having sent him to die in a dungeon, occupied his 
scarcely warm seat, honest ? Yet none of them, thank God, 
ever injured either kings or royalty.” 

“ Doctor, you know very well that Mirabeau, being the 
friend of the Duke of Orleans, cannot be mine.” 

“ But, sire, the Duke ot Orleans being exiled, Mirabeau 
belongs to no one.” 

“ Would you have me confide in a man who is in the market ? 
How could I ?” 

By buying him. Could you not pay more than any one 
else?” 

“ He is a cormorant, who would ask a million.” 

“ If M. Mirabeau, sire, sells himself for a million, he will give 
himself away. So, you think, he is worth two millions less than 
a male or female Polignac?” 

“ Doctor Gilbert !” 

‘‘The king withdraws his promise, and I am silent” 

“ No ; speak.” I have spoken.” 

“ Let us argue.” 

“I ask nothing better, sire. I know Mirabeau by heart” 

“ You are his friend, unfortunately. I have not that honour. 
Besides, M. Mirabeau has but one friend, who is also the friend 
of the queen.” 

“ Yes ! the Count de la Marck. I know it ; we reproacn 
him with the fact every day. Your majesty, on the contrary, 
should prohibit him, under pain of death, from ever quarrelling 
with him.” 

“And of what earthly importance in politics, doctor, is a 
petty gentleman like M. Riquetti de Mirabeau ?” 

First, sire, let me tell you, M. de Mirabeau is a noblemnn, 
and not a petty gentleman. There are few nobles in France 
who date farther back than the eleventh century; since, to have 
yet a few around them, our kings exacted in requital of the 
honour of riding in their coaches no proof beyond 1399. Now, 
sire, a man descended from the Arrighetti of Florence is not a 
petty gentleman, even though, in consequence of the defeat 
of the Ghibellines, he should establish himself in France. A 
man is not a petty gentleman because he had an ancestor en- 
gaged in trade at Marseilles; the nobility of which city, like 


TRUCE, 


67 


that of Venice, is not liable to derogation fronri having engaged 
in commerce.” 

“ A debauchee in reputation : a hangman, a gulfer of 
money.” 

“ Ah, sire ! men must be taken according to their natures. 
The Mirabeaux have always been disorderly in their youth, but 
ripen in old age. When young, they are unfortunately what 
your majesty calls them, but w^hen they become heads of 
houses, they are imperious, haughty, but austere. The king 
who did not rew^ard them w'ould be ungra<-eful ; for they have fur- 
nished the army with gallant soldiers, and the navy vsdth daring 
sailors. I know their provincial spirit makes them detest all 
centralization, and that in their half-feudal, half-republican pride 
they brave from the summit of their donjon keeps all ministerial 
orders. I know that more than once they have placed in re- 
straint officers of the treasury who visited their estates, and 
equally disdained courtiers and clerks, farmers-general and 
clerks, valuing but tw^o things on earth, their sword and farmers’ 
wagons. I know that one of them wrote, ‘ Flunkeyism is the 
instinct of people of the court, with their plaster hearts and 
faces, just as ducks love the gutters.’ All this, however, sire, 
does not make a man a petty gentleman, but, on the contrary, 
may be the highest token of true nobility, though not, perhaps, 
of the highest moral sense.” 

“ Come, doctor,” said the king, with something of mortifica- 
tion, for he fancied he knew men of importance better than 
any one else did ; “ you said you knew Mirabeau by heart. Go 
on, for I who know him not would learn.” 

“Yes, sire,” said Gilbert, pricked by the kind of irony 
evinced by the king’s intonation, “and I will tell you. That 
Bruno or Riquetti was a Mirabeau who, when M. de la 
Feuillade inaugurated the statue of Victory, on the square of 
Victory, with four chained nations, when marching by with his 
guards, paused and halted his regiment in front of the statue of 
Henry IV., taking off his hat, said, ‘Let us salute this statue, 
for it is worth as much as the other.’ Francisco di Riquetti, 
who, on his return from Malta, at the age of seventeen, found 
his mother Anne de Poitiers, in mourning, asked her ‘ why ?’ his 
father having been dead sixteen years, and being told because 
she had been insulted. ‘ And did you not avenge yourself?’ said 
he. The mother said, ‘ I wished to, and one day I placed a 
pistol at his head, and said I ^yould avenge myself, but that I 

S—2 . 


/ 


68 THE C OUA TE SS EE CHARNY, 

have a son who will do it for me/ ‘ You were right, mother, 
said the young man. Without taking off his boots, he asked 
for his horse and cap, girded on his sword, and went in search 
of the Chevalier de Griasque, of whomhismother complained. He 
challenged him ; took him to a garden ; locked the gates, and 
threw the keys over the wall. He killed him, and returned 
quietly home. He, too, was a Mirabeau, as also was the Mar- 
quis Jean Antoine, who was six feet high, and beautiful as An- 
tinous and strong as Milo ; yet to him his mother said, in her 
Provençal accent, ‘You are no longer men but dwarfs.' " 

“Well,” said Louis XVI., evidently captivated by this nervous 
and interesting anecdote ; “ you speak well,” for he was 
evidently amazed by the recital of this and other anecdotes of 
the Mirabeaux. “You have not told me how the Marquis 
Jean Antoine was killed, nor how he died.” 

“He died at the Castle of Mirabeau, after a sad retreat. 
The hold was on a strong rock, defending a double gorge, on 
which the north wind perpetually blew. He, too, had that 
stern and rugged exterior the Mirabeau family ever acquire as 
they grow old and educate their children, and keeping them 
at such a distance, that the eldest said, ‘ I never had the honour 
to touch either hands, lips, or flesh of that excellent man.’ 
This eldest son was the father of the present Mirabeau. A 
hazard bird whose nest was made in four turrets, and who 
never would Versaillise themselves, which is the reason why 
your majesty neither knows, nor can do them justice.” 

“ Ah, sir ! I know, on the contrary, better. He is one of 
the chiefs of the economical school. He took part in the re- 
volution which is just over, by giving the signal for social reforms, 
and was especially guilty of his part in them, in having said, 
‘ Every woman now gives birth to an Artaveldt or to a 
Massaniello.’ He was not mistaken, and his own mother’s 
womb has proven it.” 

“Sire, there is in the Mirabeaux something which offends 
and displeases your majesty. Let me tell you, paternal and 
royal despotism have effected this.” 

“ Royal despotism !” said Louis XVI. 

“ Certainly, sire, without the king, your father, being able to 
prevent it. For what great crime had the scion of this lofty 
and ancient race committed, to induce his father, at the age of 
fourteen, to send him to a school of correction, in which his 
name was registered, not Riquetti de Mirabeau, but De 


/ 


TRUCE. 


69 


Buflfièrcs ? What had he done at eighteen, to make him the 
victim of a lettre de cachet ? What had he done at twenty, 
that he should be made to serve in the ranks of a punishment 
battalion in Corsica? His father said, ‘ He will cn the i6th ol 
April next embark on the plain which now alone is being 
ploughed. God grant he may not reap it some day.’ 

“ What had he done, that after a year of marriage his father 
should exile him to Manosque ? After six months, then, vhy 
was he transferred to Joux? Why, after his escape, v\as he 
arrested at Amsterdam, and imprisoned at Vincennes, where 
for ever to him, who was being strangled when at large, paternal 
love and royal clem.ency assigned to a dungeon of ten square 
feet, where for five years his youth was agitated, his passion in- 
flamed, and his mind strengthened. 

“I will tell your majesty what he had done. He had won 
the heart of his master, Poisson, by the ease with which he 
learned everything. He had gnawed through political science. 
Having adopted the profession of arms, he wished to persevere 
in it. Pie had, when reduced to six thousand livres a year, 
with his wife and child, contracted debts to the amount of 
thirty millions. He had broken his parole at Manosque, to 
cane a nobleman who had insulted his sister. He had, rrd 
that is the greatest of all offences, yielding to the charms of a 
pietty w'oman, carried her off from her old, m.orose, and worn 
out husband.” 

“Yes, sir,” said the king, “and afterwards deserted her. so 
that the unfortunate Madame Monnier, left alone with her 
crime, committed suicide.” 

Gilbert looked up to heaven, and sighed. 

“ What have you to say to that, and how will you defend 
your Mirabeau ?” 

“ By truth, sire, by truth, which so rarely penetrates to kings ; 
that you, who seek, look and ask for it. do not find it. No ; 
Madame de Monnier did not die for Mirabeau, who immedi- 
ately on his leaving Vincennes visited her first, disguised as a 
pedlar. He entered the convent of Gier, whither she had 
sought an as\lum. He found Sophie cold and constrained. 
There was an explanation, and Mirabeau saw not only that 
Madame de Monnier did not love him, but even that she loved 
another, the Chevalier de Rancourt. She, made free by her 
husband’s death, was about to marry this other. Mirabeau had 
left prison too scon ; his captivity had been relied on, and it 


70 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNTK 


will be necessary to destroy his honour. Mirabeau gives place 
to his happy rival, and retires. Madame de Monnier is about 
to marry De Rancourt, who, however, dies suddenly. The 
poor woman, in this last passion, had expended all her soul and 
passion. 

“ One day, on the 9th of September, she killed herself with 
charcoal. Mirabeau’s enemies then alleged that she died on 
his account, when she died for another. Ah, history, history, 
thus are you written !” 

“Wherefore was it,” said the king; “that he received the 
news with such indifference ?” 

“ How did he receive it ?” said the doctor. “ I can assure 
your majesty he never did receive it, for it never w^as told him ; 
for I know' who told him. Ask that person. He will not dare 
to lie, for he is a priest — Curé of Gier, the Abbé Vallet, and 
sits in opposition to Mirabeau. He crossed the hall, and sat 
by his side, ‘ What the devil are you doing here ?’ asked Mira- 
beau. Without replying, the abbé gave him a letter, contain- 
ing all the details. He opened it, and was long reading it, for 
in all probability he could not believe the fatal new’s. He read 
it again, and then grew pale, his face from time to time express- 
ing deep emotion. He passed his hands across his brow. His 
countenance grew pale ; he coughed, spat, and sought to re- 
strain his feelings. At last, he had to yield. He arose and 
hurried out, and did not show himself again in the Assembly 
for three days. Sire, sire, forgive my entering into these de- 
tails, for let a man have but ordinary talent, he will be slandered 
everywhere. What then must be the fate of a man of genius ?’* 

“ Why so, doctor ? Why should any one slander Mirabeau 
to me ? * 

“ Interest, sire, the interest of mediocrity to keep near the 
throne. Mirabeau is one who, if he enter the temple, will 
expel all the hucksters. Were Mirabeau near you, sire, all 
petty intrigues would end. Were Mirabeau near you, genius 
would mark out the course of honesty. What is it to you, if 
Mirabeau ran aw'ay with Madame Monnier? If he was un- 
happy with his wife ? If he owe half a million of money ? 
Pay his debts, sire, and add to these five hundred thousand 
francs, one, two, ten million francs; what is the difference? 
Mirabeau is free; do not let him escape you. Make' him a 
counseller and minister, and listen to his powerful voice. 
What it says, tell back to Europe and the world.” 


"TRUCE. 


7 » 


“Mirabeau, who became a cloth merchant at Aix, to be 
elected by the people, cannot be false to his constituents, and 
desert them for the court.” 

“ Sire, I tell you, you do not know the Mirabeaux. He, like 
his family, is an aristocrat, noble, and royalist. He procured 
an election by the people because the nobility disdained him. 
The Mirabeaux have that sublime want of action, by any pos- 
sible means, which torments men of genius. He was elected 
by neither the nobility nor the people to enter Parliament as 
Louis XIV. did, booted and spurred, arguing divine right. 
He did not desert the people for the court, you say. Why, 
then, do the two parties exist ? Why do not the two coalesce ? 
Well, Mirabeau will effect this. Take Mirabeau, sire, or else 
to-morrow, repelled by your disdain, he will turn against you. 
Then, sire, as the picture of Charles I. says, ‘ All will be lost.’ 
I tell you so, sire.” 

“ Mirabeau will oppose me, doctor 1 Has he not already 
done so ?” 

“In appearance, perhaps, but in fact Mirabeau is your friend. 
Ask the Count de la Marck what he said at the famous session 
of June 21, — for Mirabeau reads the future with terrible 
wisdom.” 

“ Well, what did he say 

“ He wrings his hands with grief, sire, and says, ‘ Thus kings 
are led to the scaffold. These people do not see the abyss 
they dig beneath the steps of monarchy. The king and queen 
will die, and the people will clap their hands over their 
carcases.’ ” 

The king trembled, grew pale, looked at the portrait of 
Charles I., appeared for a moment ready to decide, but all at 
once, said : “ I will talk of this with the queen. It may be she 
will decide to have an interview with Mirabeau. I will not 
speak to him. I like to clasp the hands of those with wLom I 
talk, as now, Gilbert, I do yours. Not for my liberty or my 
throne would I clasp that of M. Mirabeau.” 

Gilbert was about to answer, and, perhaps, might have in- 
sisted, but just then an usher entered, and said — 

“ Sire, the person your majesty was to receive this morning 
awaits you in the ante-chamber.” 

Louis XVI. looked anxiously at Gilbert. 

“ Sire,” said he, “ if I should not see the person your majesty, 
expects, I will go out by the other door.” 


72 


THE COU.VTESS DE CIIARNY. 


“No, sir, go through this. You are aware that I look oi 
you as my friend, and that from you I have no secret. I'he 
person I expect is a simple gentleman, once attached to my 
brother’s household, and recommended by him. He is a 
faithful servant, and I wish to see if something may not be 
done, if not for him, at least for his wife and children. Go, M. 
Gilbert, you know I am always glad to see you, — even when 
you talk to me of M. Riquetti de Mirabeau.” 

“ Sire, must I then think I have utterly failed ?” 

“ I said I would speak to the queen, and think. We will 
meet at another time.” 

“ Another time ? Sire, I pray it may be soon.” 

“ Think you, then, the danger so imminent ?” 

“ Sire,” said Gilbert, “ never suffer them to take the picture 
of Charles I. from your room. It is a wise adviser.” 

Bowing, he left the room, just as the person the king expected 
appeared. 

Gilbert uttered a cry of surprise. The nobleman was the 
Marquis de Favras, whom eight or ten days before he had met 
at Cagliostro’s house, when his fatal and speedy death was 
foretold. 


CHAPTER VHI. 

FAVRAS. 

Whit.e Gilbert withdrew, a prey to an unknown terror in relation, 
not to the revolution, but to the invisible and mysterious course 
of events, the Marquis de Favras was introduced, as we have 
said iu the preceding chapter, to Louis XVI. 

As Doctor Gilbert had done, he paused at the door ; the 
king beckoned him to draw near. 

Favras advanced and bowed, waiting respectfully to be 
spoken to. 

Louis XVI. fixed on him that glance of anxious inquiry 
which seems to ba apart of the education of kings, and wliich 
is measured in profundity by him that employs it." 

“You are the Marquis de Favras, sir?” said the king. 

Yes, sire,” said the marquis. 


rjVRAS. 


73 


You wished to be presented to me ?’* 

“1 expressed to his royal highness the Count de Provence 
my warm desire to offer the king my homage to majesty.” 

“ My brother has great confidence in you ?” 

“ I think he has, and I wish that good opinion to be shared 
by your majesty.” 

“ My brother has known you long, M. de Favras.” 

“ But your majesty does not, I understand. Interrogate me, 
however, but ten minutes, and your majesty will know me as 
well as your august brother.” 

“ Speak, marquis,” said Louis XVI., looking at the picture 
of Charles Stuart, which he could not entirely eradicate from 
his mind or from his glance. “ Speak, marquis, I listen to you.” 

“Your majesty wishes to know ” 

“ Who you are and what you have done.” 

“ Who I am, sire, the announcement of my name tells you. 
I am Thomas Mahi, Mar^^uis de Favras ; I was born at Blois, 
in 1745 ; I entered tlie mousquetaires at fifteen, and served in 
that corps the campaign of 1761. I was then captain and 
aide-major in the regiment of Belzunce, and afterwards lieuten- 
ant of the Swiss of the guard of the Count de Provence.” 

“ You left his service ?” 

“In 1775, sire, to go to Vienna to have my wife recognised 
as the only and legitimate daughter of the Prince of Anhalt- 
Schauenberg.” 

“ Has your wife ever been presented ?” 

“ No, sire ; but at this moment she has the honour of being, 
with my eldest son, received by the queen.” 

The king made an uneasy movement which seemed to say, 
“ Ah ! the queen has something to do with it.” 

After a momentary silence, during which he walked up and 
down the room, and glanced again and again at the picture of 
Charles I., “ And then ?” said the king. 

“ Then, for three years during the insurrection against the 
Stadtholder, I commanded a legion, and, in a degree, contri- 
buted to the re-establishment of authority. Then, as I looked at 
France, and saw the evil spirit which appeared to pervade it, I 
returned to Paris to place my life and sword at the service of 
the king.” 

“ You have indeed had trouble.” 

“ Yes, sire ; I saw the sad days of the 5th and 6th of October.” 

The king seemed to wish to change the subject. 


74 


THE CJUHTESS DE CH ARN Y. 


“And you say, marquis,” continued he, “that my brother, 
the Count de Provence, had such confidence in you that he 
confided to your care the charge of a large sum of money ?” 

At this unexpected question a third person would have had 
his nerves severely shaken by witnessing the nervous tremor of 
a curtain which half closed the alcove of the room, as if some 
one were hidden behind it, and at the agitation of M. de 
Favras, like that of a man who, expecting one question, has 
another altogether different addressed to him. 

“ Yes, sire ; if it be a mark of confidence to confide the 
charge of mDney to a nobleman, his royal highness has done so 
to me.” 

The king looked at Favras as if the direction the conversa- 
tion had assumed offered his curiosity a greater interest than 
the course it had hitherto taken. 

The marquis then continued, but like a man who has been 
disappointed : “ His royal highness, .being deprived of his re- 
venues by the various measures of the Assembly, and thinking 
that the time was come when, for their own safety, it was 
necessary for the princes to have a large sum at their disposal, 
gave me the contracts.” 

“ On which you borrowed, sir?” “Yes, sire.” 

“A large sum, you say?” “Yes, sire, two millions.” 

“ From whom ?” 

De Favras hesitated to reply to the king ; the conversation 
appeared to have assumed a scope widely different from that 
he expected — looking into private rather than general interests, 
and sinking from politics into police. 

“ I asked,” said the king, “ who lent the money ?” 

“ Baron Zanoni.” 

“ Ah !” said Louis XVI., “ an Italian.” “ A Genoese, sire.” 

“ And he lives ?” 

“ At Sevres, just opposite the place where,” said Favras, who 
hoped by thus spurring his horse in the face of the king to excite 
the foundered animal to some vigour, — “ where the coach of 
your majesty, stopped by the cut-throats under the conduct of 
Marat, Verriers, and the Duke d’Aiguillon, forced the hair- 
dresser of the queen to dress the heads of Varicourt and 
Deshuttes.” 

He grew pale, and had he at that moment looked towards 
the alcove, he would have seen that the curtain was more vio* 
kntly agitated than it had previously been. 


FJ VRAS, 


75 

It was evident that the conversation annoyed him, ana that 
he wished he had not engaged in it. He resolved to end it as 
soon as possible. He said : “ It is evident, sir, that you are a 
faithful subject of royalty, and when the time comes, I promise 
not to forget you.’* 

He bowed, and when princes do that^ it means, “You may go.” 

Favras understood him perfectly. 

“ Excuse me, sire, your majesty had one other thing to ask 
me 

“ No,” said the king, as if he wondered what the matter 
could be, or what new question he was expected to ask. “No, 
marquis, this is all I wished to know.” 

“You are mistaken, sire,” said a voice which make both the 
king and marquis turn towards the alcove. “ You wished to 
know what course the ancestor of the marquis adopted to save 
King Stanislaus at Dantzic, and how he escorted him in safety 
to the frontier.” ^ 

They both uttered an exclamation of surprise. The third 
person who thus suddenly mingled in the conversation vas 
the queen, pale, and with quivering lips, who, not satisfied with 
what Favras had told her, and fancying that the king, if left to 
himself, would dare to act decidedly, had come by the secret 
stairway and corridor to participate in the conversation. 

Favras at once appreciated the means offered him to unfold 
his plan, and, though none of his ancestors had ever contri- 
buted to the escape of the Polish monarch, he hastened to bow, 
and replied : “ Your majesty, doubtless, refers to my cousin, 
General Steinflicht, who owes the illustration of his name to 
the services he rendered his monarch ; services which were 
doubly important, as, in the first place, he wrested him from 
the hands of his enemies, and, subsequently, by means of a 
lucky accident, made him one of your majesty’s progenitors.” 

“ That is true, sire,” said the queen, eagerly ; while Louis 
XVI. looked at the portrait of Charles I. and sighed deeply. 

“ Well,” said Favras, “ your majesty is aware that King 
Stanislaus, though nominally free in Dantzic, w’as strictly watched 
by the Muscovite army, and was almost lost, if he did not de- 
termine on a prompt escape.” 

“ He was entirely, you may say entirely lost, M. de Favras,” 
added the queen. 

“ Madame,” said Louis XVI., with severity, “ Providence 
watches over kings, and they are never utterly lost.” 


75 


THE COUXTESS DE C II ADN Y. 


“ Ah, sire,” saM the queen, “ I have as full, or as religious a 
faith in Providence as you have, but I think we should do some- 
thing for ourselves.” 

Such was the opinion of the King of Poland, sire,” added 
De Favras, “for he publicly declared, that no longer thinking 
his position tenable, and knowing his life to be in danger, he 
wished various plans of escape to be submitted to him. In 
spite of the difficulty, three were proposed. I say in spite of 
the difficulty, because your majesty will remark that it was more 
difficult for the King of Poland to escape than for yourself. 
For instance, if your majesty should fancy to leave Paris with 
a post-carriage, if your majesty wished to do so quietly, you 
could, in a day or night, gain the frontier ; or if your majesty 
wished to leave Paris as a king, give an order to some gentle- 
man to collect thirty thousand men and seize on the Tuileries, — 
in either case success would be sure.” 

“Sire,” said the queen, “M. de Favras tells your majesty 
nothing but the truth.” 

“ Yes,” said the king; “but my situation if far from being 
desperate, as was that of my cousin Stanislaus. Dantzic was 
surrounded by the Muscovites, as the marquis says : the fort 
of Weichselmund, its last defence, had capitulated ; while I ” 

“ While you,” interrupted the queen, with impatience, “are 
surrounded by the people of Paris, who took the Bastile on the 
14th of July, and who, on the night of the 5th and 6th of 
October, sought to murder you, and who on the 6th brought 
you with însnlts back to Paris. Ah ! it is a far better condition 
than that of Stanislaus.” 

“Yet, madame ” 

“ King Stanislaus was exposed only to death or imprisonment, 
while we ” 

A glance from the king made her pause. 

“ But you are the master, and must decide.” 

She, in her impatience, sat in front of the picture of Charles I. 

“ M. de Favras,” said she, “ I have seen the marchioness 
and your eldest son. I found them both brave and full of 
courage, as the wife and son of a brave nobleman should be. 
And in case anything befall them, they may rely on the Queen 
of France, who will not abandon them. She is the daughter 
of Marie Thérhse, and can appreciate and reward courage.” 

The king, as if he were excited by this boutade, said ; “ You 
say, sir, three modes of escape were proposed ?” 


FA I'RAS, 


77 


** Yes, sire. The first, the disguise of a peasant. The Coun- 
tess Chapoka, Palatine of Pomerania, \vho spoke German, her 
native tongtie, offered, confiding in a man she knew to be well 
acquainted with the country, to disguise herself as a peasant 
woman, and pass him off as her husband. This was the method 
I just now spoke of to the King of France as so easy in case 
he wished to fly incognito, and at night.” 

“ 'Phe second ?” said Louis XVI., impatiently, as if he dis- 
liked the situation of Stanislaus being compared with his own. 

“ The second was to take a thousand men and cut through 
the Muscovites ; this I suggested just now to the King of 
France, observing that he had not one, but thirty thousand 
at his service.” 

“ You saw how valuable those thirty thousand men were on 
the 14th of July, M. de Favras. Now for the third.” 

“ The third, which Stanislaus decided on, was to disguise 
himself as a peasant, not with a woman, who might encumber 
him on the road, not with a thousand men, every one of whom 
might be killed without cutting through the enemy, but with 
two or three sure men who had travelled much. The last was 
suggested by M. Monsi, and appro\ed by General Steinflicht.” 

“ Was it adopted ?” 

“ Yes, sire ; and if a king finding or thinking himself in the 
situation of the King of Poland should determine to adopt it, 
and grant me the confidence your kinsman granted General 
Steinflicht, I think I would answer with my head that, where the 
roads are free, as they are in France, and the king as bold a 
rider as your majesty ” 

“ Certainly,” said the queen. “ But on the night of the 5th 
and 6th of October the king swore never to form a plan of 
escape without me. He promised, sir, and will keep his word.” 

“ Madame,” said Favras, “ that makes the journey more 
difficult, but not impossible; and had I the honour of conduct- 
ing such an expedition, 1 would promise to carry the king and 
queen to Montmedy or Brussels, or lose my head.” 

“ Do you hear, sir ? I think there is all to gain and nothing 
to lose with a man like M. de Favras.” 

“ So, too, do I, madame ; but the moment is not yet favour- 
able.” 

“ Very well, sire,” said the queen; wait, as did he whose por- 
trait you study so. The sight of that, I thought, would have given 
you better counsel Wait until we are forced into a contest, until 
a battle shall have been lost, until a sc' ffold shall have been 


78 


I UE COUA-TESS DE C//AEA^Y, 


erected benea a your windov/, and then, instead of savin" as you 
do to-day, ‘ It is too soon,’ you will say, ‘ It is too late.’ ” 

“ At all events, and under all circumstances, the first word of 
the king will find me ready,” said De Favras, bowing ; for he 
was afraid that his presence, having brought on a kind of 
contest between the king and queen, fatigued the latter. “ I 
can only offer my life to my king ; and I should not say I offer, 
for the right of using it is his.” 

“ It is well, sir ; and in case of need I renew to you the offer 
the queen made in relation to the marquise and your children.” 

This was a real dismissal, which the marquis was forced to 
take, a id finding no other encouragement than a glance from 
the queen, he left the room. 

I'he queen looked after him until the tapestry hid him. 

“ Ah, sire,” said she, and she pointed tow’ards the picture by 
Vandyck, ‘‘when I had that picture hung in your room I 
fancied it would inspire you.” 

Haughty, and disdaining to pursue the conversation, she 
advanced towards the door of the alcove ; all at once, pausing, 
she said : “ Sire, confess that the Marquis de Favras is not the 
only person you have seen to-day.” 

“ Yes, madame, I saw Doctor Gilbert.” 

The queen trembled. 

“ Ah !” said she, “ so I thought ; and the doctor — 

“ Agrees with me, that we should not leave France.” 

“ Thinking, then, we should not leave it, he has suggested 
some way . to enable us to live here.” 

“Yes, one which, unfortunately, if not bad, is impracticable.” 

“ What is it ?” 

“ That we purchase the services of Mirabeau for one year.” 

The queen’s face was deeply pensive. 

“Perhaps,” said she, “that might be a way.” 

“ Yes, but it is a thing you would refuse to do, madame.” 

“ I say neither yes nor no,” said the queen, with the expres- 
sion the angel of evil mi-, ht assume when sure of his triumph : 
“ my advice is to think of it.” She added in a lower tone, as 
she left, “ And I will think of it.” 

The^ king was alone, on his feet, and for an instant motion- 
less. Then, as if he feared that the retreat of the queen was 
feigned, he went to the door through which she had gone, 
opened it, and looked into the corridor and antechambers. 

Seeing none of the servants, he said in a half voice. “Fran- 
cois I” 


FA VU IS. 79 

A valet, who had risen when tlie door of the king’s apart' 
ments opened, was immediately told to draw near. 

“François,” said Louis XVI., “do you know the rooms of 
M. de Charny ?” 

“ Yes, sire.” 

“ Find M. de Charny ; I wish to see him.” 

The valet de chambre left, and closing the door behind him, 
went to the room of M. de Charny, whom he found with his 
head resting on his hand, and his eyes gazing on that ocean of 
roofs which lost itself in an horizon of tiles and slates. 

The valet knocked twice without succeeding in arousing the 
count. Charny was lost in reflection, and at last the valet 
determined, as the key was in the door, to enter. 

The count looked around. 

“ Ah, M. Hue, is it you ? Are you come to me from the 
queen ?” 

“No, count, from the king.” 

“ From the king !” echoed Charny, wondering what he 
could want with him. “ Very well ; say to his majesty that I 
obey.” 

The valet de chambre retired with the formula prescribed by 
etiquette, while the count, with that courtesy which the old 
and true nobility en ertained for any one coming from the 
king, whether wearing a gold chain or a livery, went with him 
to the door. 

When alone, Charny for a moment rested his head on his 
hands, as if to arrange his ideas, put on his sword, which 
lay on a chair, took up his hat and went downstairs. 

He found Louis XVI. in his chamber, sitting with his back 
to the picture by Vandyck, and aw'aiting him. 

The desk was covered with charts, w'orks on geography, 
English papers, and journals, among which were discovered 
manuscripts of I.ouis XVI., recognisable by the fact that he 
wrote so closely that scarcely any margin was to be seen. 

Charny looked particularly at none of the objects which laid 
around, and waited respectfully for the king to speak. 

'J’he king, hov/ever, in spite of the confidence he had pre- 
vjously exhibited, seemed to experience a certain hesitation. 

In the first place, and to acquire courage, he opened a 
drawer in his desk, and a secret compartment within this drawer, 
whence he extracted several papers in envelopes, which he 
placed on the table. 


So 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


“ M. de Charny,” said he, “ I have observed one thing—** 

He paused, looking fixedly at Charny, who waited respect- 
fully to hear what he had to say. 

“ On the night of the 5th and 6th of October, having to 
select between the care of the queen and myself, I saw that 
you placed . er under the charge of your brother, while you 
remained by me. ” 

“ Sire,” said Charny, “ I am the head of my family, as you 
are the chief of the state; I had, therefore, the right to die by 
your side.” 

“ This made me think,” said Louis XVI., “ that if I had ever 
a secret mission, at once secret, difficult, and dangerous, I could 
trust it to your loyalty as a French noble, to your devotion as 
a friend.” 

“ Oh, sire !” said Charny, “ exalt me as high as you please, 
and I will ever be grateful. I cannot do more.” 

“ M. de Charny, though scarcely thirty-six, you are a thought- 
ful man. You have not passed through the events which are 
transpiring around us without extracting profit from them. 
What think you of my situation, and were you prime minister, 
what would you suggest to improve it ?” 

“ Sire,” said Charny, with more hesitation than embarrass- 
ment, “ I am a military man — a sailor ; such questions I am 
incompetent to answer.” 

“ Monsieur,” said the king, giving Charny his hand, with a 
dignity which seemed suddenly to spring from the very situation 
in which they were placed, “ you are a man, and I am another, 
who, thinking you his friend, asks you simply what, if you were 
in his situation, you would do.” 

“ Sire,” said Charny, “ in a situation not less grave than the 
present, the queen did me the honour, as the ^ ig does now’’, 
to ask my opinion ; I speak of the capture of the Bastile. 
She wished to use against the hundred thousand Parisians in 
arms, rolling like a hydra of fire and steel along the Boulevards, 
her eight or ten thousand foreign soldiers. Had I been less 
known to the queen, had she been less familiar with my devotion 
and respect, my reply would doubtless have made trouble 
between us. Alas, sire ! may I not fear that my reply to-day 
will offend the king ?” 

“ What did you say to the queen ?” 

“ That, if not strong enough to enter Paris as a conqueror, 
you must enter it as a father 1” 


FA VRAS, 


8l 


**Well, sir, did not I follow that advice?” “Yes, sire.” 

“ Now it remains to see whether I have acted correctly or 
not. Tell me, now, have I entered Paris as a king or as a 
prisoner ?” 

“Sire,” said the count, “does the king permit me to speak 
to him frankly ?” 

“Do so, sir! When I ask your advice, I also ask your opinion.” 

“ Sire, I disapproved of the banquet at Versailles, and begged 
the queen not to go to the theatre without you. Sire, I de- 
spaired when I saw the queen trample on the national cockade, 
and put on that of Austria.” 

“ Think you, count, that was the true cause of the events of 
the 5 th and 6th of October?” 

“ No, sire ; it was at least the pretext Sire, you are not 
unjust to the people ; the people is good, and loves you, for it 
is royalist ; the people, though, suffers ; it is cold and hungry, 
and has in, around, and above it, bad counsellors, who urge it 
on. It advances, urges onward, overturning everything, and is 
ignorant of its own pow«r. When once loosed, once released, 
turned forth and in motion, it is either a conflagration or a 
deluge. It either burns or overwhelms.” 

“But, M. de Charny, suppose one wishes neither to be 
burned nor drowned. This is very natural ; what then must 
I do ?” 

Give no pretext for the inundation to burst, for the con- 
flagration to spread. Sire, you have seen this people of Paris, 
so long without sovereigns, so anxious to see them again. You 
have seen it murdering, burning, and as' assinating at Versailles, 
or rather, you thought so ; at Versailles you did not see the 
people; you saw it, at the Tuileries, saluting beneath the balcony, 
the queen, the royal family ; penetrating into your apartments, 
by means of deputations, from the market, of the civic guard, 
of the municipal corps ; those who had not the happiness of 
entering your apartments and exchanging words with you, 
pressed close around the windows of the dining-room, through 
Avhich the women sent sweet kisses to their illustrious guests, 
the kisses of their children.’’ 

“ Yes,” said the king, “ I caw all that, and thence comes my 
hesiti.tian. I ask what is the true people, that which burns and 
caresses, or that which caresses and demands ?” 

“The last, sir, the last, sir. Confide in that which will 
defend you against the other.” 


6 


82 


THE COUNTESS DR CHARNY. 


“ Count, you say to me now, exactly what Doctor Gilbert 
said two hours ago.” 

“ Then, sire, how, having consulted a man so profound, so 
learned, so grave as the doctor, can you deign to consult a 
mere soldier like myself?” 

“ I will tell you, M. de Charny,” said Louis XVL ; “ I think 
there is a great difference between you. You are the friend of 
the king, and Doctor Gilbert is only the friend of royalty.” 

“ I do not understand, sire.” 

“ I mean that if the principle of royalty were deserted, he 
would willingly abandon the king, that is to say, the man.” 

“Then your majesty is right. For to me, sire, you will ever 
be both the king and the impersonation of royalty. Thus I 
wish you to use me.” 

“ Some time since, M. de Charny, 1 wished to know to whom 
you would address yourself in this calm, which perhaps inter- 
venes between two storms — to efface all memory of the past, 
and conjure up better prospects of the future.” 

“Had I the honour and misfortune, sire, of royalty, I would 
remember the shouting around my carriage on the return from 
Versailles, and I would give my right hand to Lafayette and 
my lefc to Mirabeau.” 

“ Count, how can you say this, when you hate the one and 
detest the other ?” 

“ Sire, feelings, now, we have nothing to do with. The fate 
of the king and kingdom are at stake.” 

“ Just what Gilbert said,” the king said to himself. 

“ Sire,” said Charny, “ I am happy to find so distinguished a 
person agree with me.” 

“ Think you then, count, that the union of these two men 
would restore the nation to calm and to peace ?” 

“ With God’s aid, sire, I would expect much from the union 
of these two men.” 

“ But if I lent myself to this union, if I consented to the com- 
pact, and if, in spite of my desire, the ministerial combination 
should fail, what then should I do ?” 

“ Then, having exhausted all the means placed by Providence 
in your hands, having fulfilled all the duties imposed by your 
position, it would be time for you to think of your own safety, 
and of that of your family.” 

“ Then you propose that I should fly ?’* 

“ I would advise your majesty to retire, with those of your 


PA VRAS, 83 

regiments on which you think you can rely, to some strong 
place, like Metz, Nancy, or Strasbourg.” 

The face of the king lighted up. 

“ Ah,” said he ; “ and among all the generals who have 
given me proof of devotion, tell me, Charny — for you know 
them all — to whom would you confide the duty of carrying the 
king away ?” 

“Sire, it is a grave responsibility to guide a king in such a 
choice. I, however, recognize my ignorance^ my weakness* 
my impotence. Sire, I cannot.” 

“ Well, I will place you at ease. I have already made my 
choice, and I wish to send you to that man. Here is the letter 
I wish you to give him. Any name you may suggest will have no 
other influence on my determination than to point out one 
faithful servant rr.ore, who doubtless will have an opportunity 
to show his fidelity. M. de Charny, had you to confide your 
king to the prudence, valour, and fidelity of any one, whom 
would you select ?” 

“ Sire,” said Charny, after a moment’s reflection, “ not, I 
swear to your majesty, on account of friendship or family, which 
unite us, do I say this. In the army, however, there is a man 
known for his great devotion to the king ; a man who, as gover- 
nor of the Windward Isles, efficiently protected the Antilles, 
and even took several from the English, who since has had 
many important commands, and who is now, I think, governor 
of the city of Metz. This man, sir, is the Marquis de Bouille. 
If a father, I would trust my son to him ; had I a father, I 
would confide him to Bouillé ; as a subject, I would confide 
my king to him.” 

So dull w^as Louis XVI., that he heard with evident anxiety 
the w'ords of the count. One might have seen his face either 
lighten or become bedimmed, as he seemed to recognise or 
not the person of whom Charny spoke. When he heard the 
name, he could not repress an exclamation of joy. 

“ Look, count, at the address of this letter ; has not Provi- 
dence itself induced me to write to him ?” 

Charny took the letter, and read the address : 

‘‘M. Francois Claude-Amour, 

“Marquis de Bouille, 

“ General Commanding, 

“ Mtftz.** 
6—2 


84 the countess DE CH A R NY. 

Tears of joy and pride gushed from Charny’s eyes. He said : 
‘‘ Sire, after this, I have but one thing to say, that I will live 
and die for your majesty.” 

‘‘ And after what has passed, I will say, I do not think that 
I have any longer a right to keep any secrets from you, pro- 
vided that you and I are placed on a good footing ; now, to you 
alone I will confide my own person, that of my queen and my 
children. Listen to me, then ; this has been proposed to me 
and rejected.” 

Charny bowed in deep attention to the king. 

“ This is not the first time, monsieur, that the idea of a plan 
like that we speak of has occurred to myself and those around 
me. During the night of the 5th and 6th, I had wished to 
effect the queen’s escape ; a carriage was to have taken her to 
Rambouilbt, where I would have joined her on horseback. 
Jl'hence we easily could have reached the frontier, the surveil. 
lance which now surrounds us not having then been awakened. 
The project failed, because the queen would not go without 
me.” 

“ Sire, I w^as present when the pious oath was exchanged be- 
tween the king and the queen, or, rather, between the husband 
and wife.” 

“Since, M. de Breteuil has opened negotiations with me 
through the Earl of Innisdale, and to-day I received a letter 
from Soleure.” 

The king paused, when he saw the count was motionless. 

You do not answer, count,” said he. 

“ Sire, I know the Count de Breteuil is in the Austrian 
influence, and I am afraid to disturb his majesty’s legitimate 
sympathies with his wife, and the Emperor Joseph II., his 
brother-in-law.” 

The king seized Charny’s hand, and, leaning towards him, 
said in a whisper : “ Do not be afraid, count ; I like Austria no 
better than you do. This was not the only plan of escape 
offered me. Do you know the Marquis de Favras.” 

“ The old captain of the regiment of Belzunce ? The old lieu- 
tenant of the guards of Monsieur? Yes, sire.” 

“ That is it,” said the kin% repeating, “ ‘the old lieutenant of 
the guards of Monsieur.’ Wnat think you of him ?” 

“ Well, he is a brave soldier and a gentleman, ruined by acci- 
dents, a thing which makes him the more unhappy, and impels 


FA V.?AS, 


85 

him to mad attempts and foolish plans. He is, however, a man 
of honour, and will die rather than shrink from aught he has 
undertaken. He is a man on whom your majesty might rely 
for a coup-de-main, but whom I would fear to make the leader 
of an enterprise.” 

‘‘ Then,” the king said, with something of bitterness, “ the 
leader is not he, but Monsieur. Monsieur, the man who makes 
money, prepares everything. Monsieur, who purposes to re- 
main in France when I shall have left it !” 

Charny made a movement expressive of alarm. 

“ Well ! what mean you, count ? This is not an Austrian plot, 
but a movement of the princes, of the noblesse, of the emigres.” 

“ Sire, excuse me. I doubt neither the honour, nor the 
courage, nor the loyalty of M. de Favras. If he promised to take 
your majesty anywhere, he wûll do so, or will die in your defence. 
Why, though, does not Monsieur go with your majesty? Why 
does he remain here?” 

From devotion, I tell you ; and perhaps — if it should become 
necessary to depose one king and appoint a regent — the people, 
weary of the search for a king, would not have far to look for 
a regent.” 

“ Sire,” said Charny, “ this says terrible things.” 

“ I tell you what everybody knows, dear count, what your 
brother wrote yesterday. In the last council of the princes at 
Turin, it was proposed to depose me and to appoint a regent ; M. 
de Condé, my cousin, proposed to march upon Lyons. You see, 
then, I can neither accept the offer of Breteuil nor of Favras, 
neither of Austria nor of the princes. This, count, I have told 
no one, and I wish no one, not even the queen^ to know of it.” 
Louis XVI. emphasised the words we have italicised. “ As 
in no one, not even the queen, have I reposed such confidence, 
you should be more devoted to me than to any one else.” 

“Sire,” said Charny, “ must the secret of my journey be kept 
from everyone ?” 

“ It matters not, count, that the people know whither, if 
they do not know’- wLy you go.” 

“ And the object must be revealed to M. de Bouillé alone ?” 

“ 1 o him alone, and not until you shall have ascertained his 
feelings. 7'he letter I give is simply one of introduction. You 
know my position, my fears, better than either M. Necker, my 
minister, my counsellor. Act accordingly. I put the thread 
and shears in your hands. Untwine or cut.” 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 




He then gave the count an open letter. 

“ Read,” said he. 

Charny took it, and read : 

“ Palace of the Tuileries, Oct. 29. 

“ I trust, sir, you continue to be satisfied with your position as 
governor of the palace of Metz. The Count de Charny, who 
passes through Metz, will ask you if I can serve you in any 
other manner. If so, it would delight me to please you, and 
seize the opportunity to assure you of my esteem for you. 

“ liOUIS.” 

“And now, M. de Charny,” said the king, “go ; you have full 
power to make any promise to M. de Bouillé, if you think any 
necessary ; only promise nothing that I cannot keep.” 

He gave him his hand again. 

Charny kissed it with an emotion w'hich made all new protes- 
tations useless, and left the room, leaving the king convinced, 
as was the case, that he had by this confidence won the count 
heart more completely than if he had heaped on him all the 
riches and favours in his bestowal during his omnipotence. 


CHAPTER IX. 

DARK PROSPECTS. 

The Count de Charny proceeded to the royal post to have 
horses put to his carriage. 

While they were being harnessed, he went into the house of the 
agent, asked for pen, ink, and paper, and wrote to the countess 
a letter, which he bade the domestic who returned with his 
horses to give her. 

The countess, half asleep on the sofa placed in the corner, 
and having a small stand before her, was occupied in reading 
this letter, when Weber entered. 

“ Monsieur Weber,” said the femme de chambre, opening the 
door. 

The countess folded up her letter quickly, as if Weber had 
come to take it from her, and placed it in her bos:m. 

The purport of Weber’s message was that the queen wished 
to see the countess in the evening. 


I)AR/i PROSPECTS, 


^7 


Andrée simply replied that she would obey her majesty. 

When Weber was gone, the countess closed her eyes for a 
moment, as if for the purpose of expelling all bad ideas and 
every evil thought, and not until she had succeeded in perfectly 
recovering herself did she think herself able to finish the 
letter. 

When she had read it, she kissed it tenderly, and placed it 
on her heart. 

“ May God keep you, soul of my life ! I do not know where 
you are, but only that my prayers will ascend to God.” 

Then, as she could not possibly know why she was sent for, 
without impatience and without fear, she awaited the hour for 
her visit to the Tuileries. 

This was not the case with the queen. A kind of prisoner 
in the palace, under the influence of impatience, she wandered 
from the pavilion of Flora to that of Warsaw. 

Monsieur requested her to pass an hour. Monsieur had 
come to the Tuileries to ascertain how the king had received 
De Favras. 

The queen, who was ignorant of the journey of Charny, and 
wished to keep this route of safety open,, promised more for the 
king than he had promised for himself, and told Monsieur that 
when the time came it would be adopted. 

Monsieur, too, was in high spirits. The loan he had effected 
from the Genoese banker amounted to two millions, of which 
he could only induce De Favras to accept one hundred louis, 
which De Favras needed to freshen the devotion of two persons 
on whom he could rely, and who were to aid in the royal 
escape. 

De Favras wished to inform Monsieur about these two men, 
but Monsieur, ever prudent, refused either to see them or to 
hear their names. 

Monsieur was to appear to be ignorant of what was going 
on. De Favras had belonged to his household, and there- 
fore he gave him the money, but he did not care what he did 
with it. 

Besides, as we have said, in case of the king’s departure. 
Monsieur remained, and therefore could not be concerned in 
the plot. Monsieur declaimed against the flight of his family, 
and as he had contrived to make himself very popular in France, 
it was probable, as Louis XVI. said to the Count de Charny, 
that Monsieur would be appointed regent. 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


If the flight were abortive, Monsieur knew nothing, would 
deny everything, and remain in France, or, with the eighteen 
hundred thousand francs he retained of the money he had 
borrowed, would join the Count d’Artois and the Princess of 
Conde, at Turin. 

The return of the baker, his wife, and the shop-boy to Paris 
had not had the expected effect. Flour and bread still were 
scarce. Every day there was a crowd around the baker’s 
doors, causing great disorders. How, though, was this to be 
prevented ? The right of reunion was provided for in the de- 
claration of the rights of man. 

The Assembly was ignorant of all that. Its members were not 
obliged to make a part of the tail from the baker’s door ; and 
when by accident one of the members became hungry during 
the session, he was always sure to find within a hundred yards 
a nice white roll at the shop of a baker named François, who 
lived in the Rue da Marché Palu, in the district of Noire Dame. 
He baked five or six times a day, and always reserved one 
baking for the Assembly. 

The lieutenant of police was communicating to Louis XV I. his 
fears relative to these disorders, which some day might become 
an outbreak, when Weber at the door of the little cabinet, and 
in a low voice, said : 

“ Madame la Comtesse de Charny.” 

Though the queen herself had sent for Andrée, and though 
she expected her to be announced, she trembled in every limb 
at Weber’s words ; she hesitated a moment; not knowing by what 
name she should address the white apparition which passed 
from the shadow of the door into the half-lighted room. At 
last, giving her hand to her old friend, she said : 

“ Welcome, Andrée, to-day as ever.” 

“ Is it necessary for me to tell your majesty,” said Andrée, 
adopting the question with frankness, “ to say that had she 
always spoken to me as she just has, it would not have been 
necessary to send for me out of the place she dwells in ?” 

“ Alas !” said the queen, “ Andrée, you, so chaste and pure, 
whose heart has been corrupted by no hatred, should know that 
tempest clouds often may cover and cause a star to disappear, 
but which, when the wind sweeps the firmament, reappears more 
brilliant. All women, even in the most exalted ranks, have not 
your serenity — I, especially, who have asked of you assistance^ 
which you have so generously granted.” 


DARFC PROSPECTS, 89 

The queen speaks of things and days I had forgotten, and 
I fancied so had she.” 

“ The reply is severe, Andrée,” said the queen, “ yet I have 
deserved it, and you were right to make it to me ; not, it is 
true, because when I was happy I did not remember your 
devotion, though no royal, and, perhaps, not even divine power, 
could adequately reward you. You have thought me ungrateful, 
when, perhaps, I was only powerless.” 

“ I would have the right to accuse you, madame, if I had 
ever asked you anything, and if you had opposed my wish and 
refused my request. How can your majesty, though, expect 
me to complain when I have never asked for anything ?” 

“ Well, let me tell you, dear Andrée, it is just this kind ot 
indifference to the things of the world which terrifies me in you. 
Yes, to me you seem a superhuman being, a creature of another 
world, borne hither by the wind, and cast among us, like stone 
purified by fire, coming none know whence. The consequence 
is, one becomes terrified at one’s own weakness, when in the 
face of one who has never failed. They say, though, that 
supreme indulgence is a quality of supreme perfection. The 
soul must be washed in the purest stream, and in a season of 
deep grief, before one does as I do — seek out that superhuman 
being whose censure we fear, but whose consolation we long for.” 

“Alas, madame!” said Andrée, “if you ask that of me, I 
fear you will be disappointed in your expectation.*' 

“Andrée, you forget in what a terrible situation you once 
consoled me.” 

Andrée grew pale, visibly. The queen, seeing her tremble 
and close her eyes, as if she had lost her strength, moved her 
arms and hands to draw her to the same sofa with herself. 
Andrée, however, resisted, and still stood erect. 

“ Madame,” said she, “ if your majesty would but pity your 
faithful servant, and spare memories she has thought she had 
almost forgotten : one who does not ask for consolation, for she 
thinks God even unable to console certain griefs.” 

The queen looked closely and long at Andrée. 

“ Certain sorrows ! Then,” said she, “ have you any other 
sorrows than those you have confided to me ?” 

Andrée was silent. 

“Let us understand each other,” said the queen. **The 
time for a full explanation has come. You love M. de 
Charny?” 


,90 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


The countess became pale as death, but was silent, 

** You love M. de Charny ?” repeated the queen. 

Yes,” said Andrée. 

The queen uttered the cry of a wounded lioness. Oh !” 
tai I she, “ I thought so ; and how long have you loved him ?” 

“Since the first time I ever saw him.” 

The queen drew back in terror before this marble statue, 
which owned that it had a soul. 

“ Gh !” said she, “ and you are dying.” 

You know that, madame, l3etter than any one else.” 

“ How so?” “ Because I have seen that you love him.” 

“ Mean you to say that you love him better than I, because 
I have not seen anything ?” 

“ Ah !” said Andrée, with bitterness, “ you saw nothing, 
because he loved you.” 

“ Yes, and you mean to say that I see now, because he loves 
me O') more ? Is that it?” 

Andrée remained silent 

“Answer me,” said the queen, seizing, not her hand, but her 
arm ; “ own that he loves me no longer.” 

Andrée neither spoke nor made the least expression, either 
with her eyes or with her hands. 

“ Indeed,” said the queen, “ this is death. Kill me, though, 
at once, by saying that he does not love me. Now he loves 
me not” 

“ The love or indifference of M. de Charny are his secrets. 
It is not for me to unveil them.” 

“ His secrets ! they are not his alone ; for I presume he has 
made you his confidant.” 

“ The Count de Charny never whispered a word, either of his 
love or indifference to me.” 

“ Not even this morning ?” 

“ I did not see M. de Charny this morning.” 

The queen looked at the countess with a penetrating glance, 
as if she would seek the very inmost part of her heart 

“ Do you mean to say that you are ignorant of the count’s 
departure ?” 

“ I do not” 

“ How could you know, if you have not seen him ?” 

“ He wrote to tell me of it.” 

“ Ah,” said the queen, “ he wrote.” 

As Richard HI. m an important moment exclaimed^ “My 


PROSPECTS, 


91 


kingdom for a horse !” Marie Antoinette was ready to say, “ My 
kingdom for that letter 1” 

Andrée saw the queen’s anxiety, but could not resist the 
temptation of leaving her to revel for a time in anguish and 
vexation. 

“ I am sure you have the letter the count wrote at the very 
moment of his departure now upon your person ?” 

Yes, madame, here it is.” 

Taking the letter, heated by the fever of her heart and em- 
balmed by its perfume, from her bosom, she gave it to the queen. 

Marie Antoinette trembled as she took it, clasped it for a 
moment in her fingers, and seemed to hesitate if she should 
read or return it. She looked at Andrée between her eye-lashes, 
and at last, casting aside all hesitation, opened and read the 
following letter ; 

‘‘ Madame, 

“ I quit Paris in an hour, in obedience to the king’s order. 
I cannot tell you whither I go, or why, nor how long I will 
be absent. These things concern you but little, yet I regret 
that I am not authorized to tell you. 

‘‘ I at first intended to present myself to you to inform you, 
in person, of my departure. I did not dare to do so, however, 
without your leave.” 

The queen knew all that she wished to know, and was about 
to return the letter to Andrée, but the latter, as if it were her 
part to obey and not to command, said : “ Read, madame, to 
the end.” The queen resumed her reading : 

“ I had refused, recently, the mission to Turin, because, fool 
as I was, I thought something of sympathy yet existed between 
us and retained me at Paris. I have proof to the contrary, and 
gladly accepted an occasion to tear myself from one who is 
indifferent to me. 

“ If, during my journey, I shall die, as my poor brother 
Georges did, all steps are taken to inform you jfirsi of the blow 
which has stricken me, and of the liberty restored to you. Then 
only, madame, you will know the deep admiration which your 
profound devotion, so badly rewarded by him to whom you 
have sacrificed youth, beauty, and happiness, has excited in my 
heart 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNŸ, 


9 « 


“ Then, madame, all I ask of God and yourself, is that you 
will think sometimes of the unfortunate wretch who, too late, 
discovered the value of the treasure he possessed. 

With all the devotion of my heart, 

“ Olivier de Charny.” 

The queen gave the letter to Andrée, who took it, and suf- 
fered it to fall by her side. She uttered a deep and almost 
inanimate sigh. 

“Well, madame,” murmured Andrée, “are you betrayed? 
I will not say, have I broken my promise, for I never made 
one, but the confidence reposed in me ” 

“ Excuse me, Andrée, but I have suffered so much. 

“ You have suffered ? dare you, before me, say you have 
suffered ? What, then, shall I say ? I will not say I have 
suffered, for I will not use a word another woman has employed 
to convey the same idea — no, I must have a new, unheard of 
word, to express at once the sum of all agony and torture. You 
have suffered, madame ! — you have not seen the man you loved, 
indifferent to you, turn on his knees, with his heart in his hand, 
to another woman ; you have not seen your brother, jealous of 
that other woman, whom he worshipped as a pagan worships his 
God, fight with the man you loved ; you have not heard the man 
you loved, and who w^as wounded by your brother, it was thought 
fatally, in his hour of delirium call for that other woman, 
whose confidant you were ; you have not seen her glide, like a 
phantom, down a corridor, where you yourself were, to catch 
the accents of that madness, which proved that if mad love does 
not survive life, at least it accompanies it to the tomb ; you 
have not seen that man, restored to life by a miracle of nature 
and science, rise from his bed to cast himself at her feet — at 
the feet of your rival, madame — of your rival, madame, for in 
love, magnitude of love is the measure of rank. In your 
despair, you did not then, at the age of twenty-five, retire into a 
convent, and seek at the icy foot of the cross to extinguish the 
love which devoured you. One day, after a year passed in 
prayer, fasting and vigils, you hoped, if not to have extin- 
guished, at least to have repressed the flame which devoured 
you ; you have not seen your old friend, now your rival, who 
had known nothing of your feelings, seek out your retreat, to ask, 
what ? — that in the name of old friendship, which suffering had 
not changed, in the name of her honour as a wife, of the safety 


DARK PROSPECTS. 


93 


of her sovereign’s ruined honour, she would hecon:e, what? — the 
wife of the man whom for three years you had adored — become 
a wife without a husband, a veil between the eye of the public 
and another’s happiness, like a pall to hide the coffin from the 
public gaze. You succeeded, madame, not from pity, for 
jealousy is pitiless, but from duty, and knowing this, you 
accepted the sacrifice. You have not heard the priest ask if 
you would take one to be your husband who never could be 
your husband ; you have not felt that man press the ring over 
your finger, and make the symbol of eternal union an empty 
ornament ; you did not leave your husband an hour after your 
marriage, never to see him again but as the lover of your rival. 
Madame, the three years that have passed have been three long 
years of agony.” 

1 he queen, with a trembling hand, felt for Andrée’s. 

Andrée put her own aside. 

“ I promised nothing, and have done all I should. You, 
madame,” said the fair arraigner, “ premised m.e two things.” 

“ Andrée ! Andrée !” said the queen. 

“ You promised me not to see M. de Charny again — a 
promise the more sacred as I did not ask it of you. 

“ Then you promised me, and this was in writing, that you 
would treat me as a sister. A promise the more sacred 
because it w^as not solicited.” “ Andrée !” 

“ Must I remind you of the terms of the promise you made 
me, of the solemn promise, when I sacrificed to you my life, 
my love ? that is to say, my happiness in this world, and my 
salvation in the next. Yes, my salvation in the next ; for who 
can say if God w'ill forgive my mad desires and wishes ? Well, 
madame, at the moment I was about to sacrifice everything for 
you, this note was handed to me. I see now every letter glaring 
before my eyes. It runs thus : 

“ ‘ Andrée ! you have saved me ; I ow'e you my life, my 
honour. In the name of that honour, which cost you so 
dearly, I sw’ear you may call me sister. Do so, and I will not 
blush. I give you this note ; it is the token of my gratitude, it 
is the dower I give you. 

“ ‘ Your heart is the noblest of hearts, and w’ill appreciate 
the present I give you. 

“ * Marie Antoinette,’ ** 

The queen sighed sadly 


Ç 4 the countess DE CH ARN Y, 

“ Yes, I see, because I burnt this note you fancied I had for- 
gotten it? No, madame; you see that I have remembered 
every word, every letter, though you might not seem to think 
of it. Ah ! I remember more.” 

Pardon, pardon me, Andrée; I thought he loved you.” 

“ You thought, then, it was a love of the human heart ; that 
he loved another, because he loved you less.” 

Andrée had suffered so much, that she too became cruel. 

“ You, also, then, have seen that he loved me less ?” said 
the queen, with an exclamation of grief. 

Andrée did not reply ; she only looked at the despairing 
queen, and a smile played on her lips. 

“ But what must be done to retain this love, which is my 
very life ? Oh ! if you know that, Andrée, my friend, my sister, 
tell me, I beg and conjure you.” 

Andrée drew back a step. 

“ Can I, whom he has never loved, madame, know that ?” 

“ But he may love you. Some day, on his knees, he may 
make atonement for the past ; ask your pardon for what he has 
made you suffer. Sufferings, too, are so soon forgotten in the 
arms of one we love ; pardon is so soon granted him who has 
made us suffer.” 

“ Well ! if such should be the case — if this misfortune befall, 
and it may be a misfortune to all — do you forget that before I 
become Charny’s wife I have a terrible secret, an awful con- 
fidence, to impart, which perhaps will turn his love into hate ? 
Do you forget I must tell him what I have told you ?” 

** You will tell him that you were violated by Gilbert ? Tell 
him that you have a child ?” 

“ Oh ! madame, what do you take m.e to be, to entertain 
any doubt about the matter ?” 

The queen breathed again. 

“Then,” said she, “you will do nothing to attract M. de 
Charny to you ?” 

“ I will do no more, madame, in the future, than I have done 
in the past.” 

“You will not tell him, nor let him suspect, that you love 
him ?” “ Not until he tells me that he loves me.” 

“ And if he come to tell you so, if you tell him that you love 
him, swear ” 

“ Madame !” said Andrée, interrupting the queen 

“ Oh !” said the queen, “ Andrée, my sister, my friend, you 


DAJ^/iT prospecta 


95 


are right, and I am cruel, wrong, exacting. But oh, when all 
abandon me, friends, power, reputation, I would at least wish 
love to remain.” 

“ And now, madame,” said Andrée, with the icy coldness 
which had never abandoned her, except during the few mo* 
merits when she spoke of the tortures inflicted on her, “ have 
you aught else to ask, any order to give ?” 

“ No, thank you, none. I wished to restore you my friend- 
ship, but you leject it. Andrée, adieu, and accept at least my 
gratitude.” 

Andrée made a gesture with her hand, which seemed to 
repel this sentiment, as she had repelled the offer of friendship, 
and left calmly and silently as a ghost. 

“ Oh ! you are right, body of ice, heart of diamond, soul ot 
fire, to accept neither my gratitude nor my friendship, for I feel 
it, and ask that God y:)ardon me for it, that I hate you as I 
have hated none ; for if he does not love you now, I am sure 
some day he will.” 

Then, calling Weber, she said : “ Tell my ladies that I will 
go to bed to-night without them, and that, as I am suffering 
and fatigued, I wish to rest until ten o’clock. The first and 
only person j will see will be M. Gilbert.” 


CHAPTER X. 

THE FRENCH BAKER. 

We shall not attempt to say how this night passed for the 
two women. 

At nine o’clock in the morning only, we shall again seek the 
queen : her eyes are red with tears, her cheeks pale from want 
of sleep. 

During some moments, although, after the orders given, no 
one dare enter her chamber, she heard around her apartment 
those comings and goings, those prolonged whisperings and 
murmurs, which announce that something unusual is passing 
without. In the midst of all these confused sounds, which 
seemed to flit along the corridor, she heard the voice of 
Weber, who ordered silence. 


95 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


She summoned the faithful valet de chambre. 

“What is it then, Weber?” asked the queen. •‘What is 
passing in the château ? and what do these sounds mean ?” 

“ Madame,” said Weber, “ there is a fight on the part of the 
Cité.” 

“ A fight !” said the queen ; “ and to what purpose ?” 

“No one knows as yet, madame ; they merely say that it is 
an émeute on account of the bread.” 

At another time he would not have broached the idea to the 
queen that there were people who were dying of hunger ; but 
since, during the journey to Versailles, she had heard the 
dauphin ask her for bread, without being able to give him any, 
she understood now the misery of fix ’11100 and hunger. 

“ Poor people !” murmured she, recalling the words which she 
had heard on the route, and the explanation which Gilbert had 
given to these words, “ They see well now that it is not the fault 
of either the baker or the bakery, that they have not the bread.” 

Then aloud, 

“ And do they not fear that it may become a grave matter ?” 
she asked. 

“ I cannot tell you, madame. There are no two reports alike,” 
answered Weber. 

“Well !” replied the queen, “run as far as the Cité, Weber ; 
it is not far from here ; see with your own eyes what is passing, 
and return to me here.” 

Weber left the chateau, gxined the passage of the Louvre, 
darted over the bridge, and guided by the shouts, and following 
the wave that rolled itself onwards towards the archiépiscopal 
palace, he arrived on the Place de Notre-Dame. 

In proportion as he advanced towards the old part of Paris, 
the crowd became thicker and the shouts more vigorous. 

In the midst of these cries, or rather of these shrieks, voices 
were heard, such as are only heard in the skies in days of 
tempest, and on the earth in the days of revolution. Voices 
cried out, “ He is a forestaller ! à mort ! à mort ! à la lanterne ! 
à la lanterne !” 

And thousands of voices which did not know what this all 
meant, and those of many women, boldly repeated, “ He is a 
forestaller ! à mort ! à mort ! à la lanterne ! à la lanterne !” 

AU at once, Weber felt himself struck by one of those shocks 
which occur in great masses of men, when a stream establishes 
itself, and he perceived coming up the Rue Chanoinesse a 


THE FRENCH BAKER. 


97 


human tide, a living cataract, in the midst of which struggled 
an unfortunate being, pale, and with torn clothes. 

It was after him that all these people hurried : it was against 
him that they raised their lamentations, their shrieks, their 
menaces. 

One single man defended him against this crowd; a single 
man only tried to dam this human current. 

The man who had undertaken this labour of pity, in spite of 
ten, twenty, a hundred men, was Gilbert. 

It is true that some amongst the crowd, having recognized 
him, commenced to cry out — 

“ It is Doctor Gilbert, a patriot, the friend of M. Lafayette 
and of M. Bailly. Listen to Doctor Gilbert.” 

At these cries there was a halt for a moment, something like 
the calm that spreads itself over the waters betwixt two squalls. 
Weber profited by them to make his way to the doctor. 

He accomplished this with great difficulty. ‘ Doctor Gilbert !” 
said the valet de chambre. 

“ Ah !” said he, “is it you, Weber ?” 

And then he made him a sign to come nearer. 

“ Go, ” said he in a low tone, “ and announce to the queen 
that I shall come to her perhaps later than she expects me. I 
am busy saving a man.” 

“ Oh, yes ! yes !” said the unhappy hearer of these last words, 
“you will save me, will you not, doctor? Tell them I am 
innocent, tell them that my young wife is enciente I I swear to 
you that I did not conceal any bread, doctor.” 

But as if the plea and the prayer of the wretched one had 
only added fuel to hatred and anger half mouldered out, the cries 
redoubled, and the menaces seemed about to be fulfilled. 

“ My friends,” cried Gilbert, opposing himself to the crowd 
with an almost superhuman force, “this man is a Frenchman, 
a citizen like yourselves ; we must not, we cannot, destroy a man 
without hearing him. Conduct him to the court, and after- 
wards we’ll see.” 

“ Yes ! yes !” cried some voices, belonging to those who had 
recognized the doctor. 

“ M. Gilbert,” said the valet de chambre of the queen, “ hold 
your own. I will go and warn the officers of the district ; the 
court is only a few paces off ; in five minutes they shall be here.'* 

And he slipped off and was lost in the crowd, without even 
waiting for the approbation of Gilbert. 


98 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


Meanwhile, four or five people had come to assist the doctor, 
and had formed a rampart with their bodies round the unhappy 
one threatened with the anger of the crowd. 

This rampart, weak as it was, restrained for a few moments 
the mutineers, who still continued to cry down the voice of 
Gilbert with their shouts, and those of the good citizens who 
had rallied round him. 

Happily, at the end of five minutes a movement was per- 
ceptible in the crowd ; a murmur succeeded this ; and this 
murmur was followed by the words : 

“ The officers of the district ! the officers of the district !” 
Before the officers of the wards the threats lessened, the crowd 
opened. The assassins had not, as yet, the word of command. 

They conducted the wretched prisoner to the Hôtel de Ville. 
He kept fast hold of the doctor : he held him by the arm, he 
would not leave him. 

Now, what about this man? 

He is a poor baker, named Denis François, the same whose 
name we have already pronounced, and who furnishes the rolls 
to the Assembly. 

This morning an old woman went into his shop in the Rue 
du Marché-Palu at the very moment when he was about to 
deliver his sixth baking of bread and begin to knead the seventh. 

The old woman asked for bread. 

François said he had none : “ But wait until my seventh baking, 
and you shall be served first. ” 

“ I wish for some directly,” said the woman ; ‘‘ here is the 
money.” 

“ But,” said the baker, “ it is true, as I say, there is no more.” 

“ Let me see.” 

“ Oh,” said the baker, ** enter, see for yourself, search every- 
where — I should like nothing better.” 

The old woman goes in, seeks all over, ferrets about, opens 
a cupboard, and in this cupboard finds three rolls of about four 
pounds each, that the boys had put away for themselves. 

She took one of them, went out without paying, and when 
the baker claimed the bread, she roused the people by crying 
that François was a forestaller, and that he had concealed had 
his baking. 

An ancient recruiter of dragoons, called Fleur d’Epine, who 
was drinking in a public-hoiise opposite, rushed out of the 
house and took up the cry of the old woman. 


THE FRENCH BAKER. 


99 


At this double cry, the people ran together, shouting, seized 
him who is here now, repeated the forced cries, rushed to the 
shop of the baker, forced the guard of four men the police had 
stationed at his door, as at that of his neighbours, spread them- 
selves about the shop, and, besides the two rasped rolls left 
and denounced by the old w^oman, found ten dozen small rolls, 
retained for the use of the deputies, who were holding a sitting 
at the archbishop’s palace, that is to say, a hundred steps from 
there. 

The wretched baker is immediately condemned. One voice, 
a hundred voices, two hundred, a thousand voices cry out, 
“ Down with the forestaller !” 

There is quite a crowd, who howl, “A la lanterne, àla lanterne !” 

At this moment the doctor, who was returning from making 
a visit to his son, whom he had again brought back to the 
Abbé Bérardier, at the college of Louis le Grand, is attracted 
by the noise ; he sees a lot of people who demand the death 
of this man, and he rushes forward to succour him. 

There, in a few words, he learned from François of what he 
w^as accused. He knew the innocence of the baker, and so he 
had tried to defend him. 

Then the crowd had pressed together, and threatened the 
poor baker and his defender. They anathematized both in 
the same words, and were ready to kill both with the same 
blow. 

It was at this moment that Weber had arrived at the Place 
Nôtre Dame and had recognized Gilbert. 

We have seen how, after the departure of Weber, the officers 
of the ward had arrived, and had conducted the unhappy baker, 
under their escort, to the Hôtel de Ville. 

Accused, officers, and the irritated people, all had entered 
pele-mele into the Hôtel de Ville, whose every place was im.mc- 
diately filled by workmen without work, and poor devils dying 
with hunger, always ready to mix themselves up in any émeute, 
and to bestow a part of the evils which they w'ere under- 
going on anyone whom they suspected of being the cause of 
the public suffering. 

Scarcely had the miserable Francois disa-ppeated through 
the doorway of the Hôtel de Ville than the cries were re- 
doubled. 

Some individuals, with features quite sinister, threaded the 
crowd, saying in a whisper ; 

LofC. 


. 7 -“? 


loo -THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 

“ He is a forestaller, paid by the court ; see, then, why they 
wish to save him !” 

And these words, “ He is a forestaller ! he is a forestaller !” 
wound, serpentlike, through the midst of the angry crowd. 

Unfortunately, it was still morning ; and none of the men 
who had power over the people, neither Bailly nor Lafayette, 
were there. 

Those who kept repeating in the crowd, “ He is a forestaller ! 
he is a forestaller !” knew this well. 

At length, when they did not see the accused reappear, the 
cries changed into one immense hurrah ! the threats into one 
universal howl ! 

These men of whom we have spoken slid through the door, 
climbed along the galleries, and penetrated even as far as the 
room where was the unhappy baker, whom Gilbert was defending 
to the best he could. 

On the other side, the neighbours of François, who had 
joined the tumult, persisted in declaring that he had given, 
since the commencement of the revolution, continual proofs of 
zeal ; that he had kneaded as many as ten bakings a day ; that 
as long as his brother bakers had wanted flour they had it from 
his own stock ; and that in order to serve the public more 
promptly, besides his own oven, he had rented that of a pastry- 
cook, whom he had made dry his wood for him. 

When these depositions were at an end, it appeared that 
instead of punishment the man deserved a reward. 

But on the Place, on the galleries, and even in the saloon, 
they continued to cry, “ Down with the forestaller !” and cried 
aloud for his death. 

All at once, a sudden rush was made in the saloon, opening 
the circle of the National Guard, which environed François, 
and separating him from his protectors. Gilbert, crowded back 
to the side of the tribunal, saw twenty arms stretched out ; 
seized, drawn, dragged by them, the accused cried for aid, for 
help — suppliantly stretched out his hands, but uselessly — as 
uselessly did Gilbert make a desperate effort to rejoin him. 
Thr' opening by which François had disappeared, little by little, 
closed upon him ; as a swimmer drawn down by a whirlpool, 
he had struggled a moment, with clasped hands, despair in his 
eyes, his voice gurgling in his throat, till the waves had 
covered him and the gulf had sw'allowed him up. 

Deserted at this moment, he was lost 


THE ERENCH BAKER, 


lOI 


Hurried down the staircase, at each step he had received a 
wound. When he arrived at the door, all his body was one 
vast sore. 

It is no longer life which he begs — it is death ! 

In one second, the head of the unhappy François w’as separ- 
ated from his body and raised on the end of a pike. 

On hearing the cries in the street, the rioters in the galleries 
and in the chambers rush out. They must see the sight to the 
end. 

It is a curious sight, a head on the end of a pike ! It is 
already the 21st, and they have never seen one since the 6th oi 
October. 

“ Oh ! Billot ! Billot !” murmured Gilbert, as he passed from 
the hall, “ how happy thou art to have left Paris 

He traversed the Place de Grève, following the border of the 
Seine, and leaving afar off the bloody head and its howling 
convoy, by the bridge of Nôtre Dame, until he had got halt 
across the Quai Pelletier, when he suddenly felt some one touch 
his arm. 

He raised his head — uttered a cry, and would have stopped 
and spoken ; but the man, whom he had recognized, had slipi^ed 
a note into his hand, placed a finger on his mouth, and drew 
off, going to the side of the archbishop’s palace. 

Without doubt this person wished to preserve an incognito, 
but a woman of the Halle, having seen him, clapped her hands 
and cried : 

“ Ah ! it is Mirabeau !” 

“Vive Mirabeau!” cried immediately some five hundred 
voices ; “ vive the defender of the people, vive our patriotic 
orator !” 

And the tail of the cortège which followed the head of the 
unfortunate François, hearing this cry, returned, and formed an 
escort for Mirabeau, who was accompanied by a large crowd, 
always cheering, until he reached the archbishop’s palace. 

It w'as indeed Mirabeau, who, returning from the sitting in 
the Assembly, had met Gilbert, and had given him a note 
which he had just written on the counter of a shop, and which 
he supposed would make him come to his house. 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


tC2 


CHAPTER XL 

THE ADVANTAGE OF HAVING THE DEAL. 

Gilbert had rapidly read the letter put into his hands by 
Mirabeau, had read it over more slowly a second time, had 
put it into his waistcoat pocket, and, calling a coach, ordered 
himself to be driven to the Tuileries. 

At the sight of Gilbert, the queen uttered a cry. 

A part of the coat and ruffles of the doctor had been torn in 
the struggle which he had maintained in endeavouring to save 
François, and some drops of blood stained his shirt. 

“ Madame,” said he, “ I crave pardon of your majesty in 
presenting myself thus before you, but I have already, in spite 
of myself, made you wait so long, that I was not wilting that 
any further delay should take place.” 

“ And this unfortunate one, M. Gilbert ?” 

He is dead, madame ; he has been assassinated, torn in 
pieces !” 

“ Was he in the least guilty ?” 

“ He was innocent, madame.” 

“ Oh ! monsieur, see the fruits of your revolution. After 
having satiated themselves with the grand seigneurs, all function- 
aries, the guards, see how they turn against each other ; but there 
are at any rate, means of executing justice on these assassins.” 

“We are silent on that hei'd, madame. But it would be 
better still to prevent the murders than to punish the mur- 
derers.” “ And how, my God, can that be done ? The 

king and I would ask nothing better.” 

“ Madame, all these evils come from a defiance of the people 
expressed towards the agents of the powers ; put at the head of 
the government men who have the confidence of the people, 
and nothing of the kind will happen.” 

“Ah ! yes ! M. de Mirabeau and M. de Lafayette, is it not 

so ?” “ I had hoped that the queen had sent for me to say 

that she had persuaded the king not to be hostile to the combina- 
tion which I had proposed to him.” 

“ Doctor, will you tell me seriously that I ought to trust my- 
self to a man who caused the 5th and 6th of October, and make 
peace wiih an orator who has publicly insulted me at the 
tribune ?” 


THE AD VAE T AGE OF HAVING TUE DEAL, 103 

“Madame, believe me, it was not M. de Mirabeau who 
caused the 5th and 6ih of October. It was hunger, the high 
price of grain, and poverty, which commenced the work of the 
day ; but it was an arm mysteriously powerful which did the 
work of the night. Perhaps, some day, I shall have to defend 
you from this side, and to struggle with this dark power, which 
jiursues not only you, but all other crowned heads — not only 
the throne of France, but all the thrones of the earth. As true 
as I have the honour to lay my life at your majesty’s feet and 
the king’s, M. de Mirabeau had nothing to do with these 
terrible days, and he had learnt at the Assembly, even as 
others did, it might be a little time, perhaps, even before the 
others, by a note, that the people were marching on Versailles.” 

“ Then you believe, M. Gilbert, that this man would consent 
to become attached to us ?” 

“ He is quite so,’ madame ; when Mirabeau separates himself 
from royalty, he is like a horse that prances, and only requires 
to feel the bridle and spur of its rider to return into its right 
road.” 

“ But being already of the party of the Duke of Orleans, he 
cannot be a member of every party.” 

“ That is your mistake, madame.” 

“ Does not M. de Mirabeau belong to the party of the Duke 
of Orleans ?” repeated the queen. 

‘‘He is so little attached to the Duke of Orleans, that when 
he discovered that that prince had withdrawn to England be- 
fore the threats of M. de Lafayette, he said, as he crushed the 
note of M. de Lauzun which announced the duke’s departure, 
‘ People say that I am one of the party of this man ; I would 
not have him as a lacquey.’ ” 

“ That speaks something in his favour,” said the queen, trying 
to smile ; “ and if I could believe that, we could really rely upon 
him.” 

“ Do you wish that I should repeat what he has said to 
me ?” “Yes, I shall be glad to hear it.” 

“ Here it is, then, word for word. I fixed his words in my 
memory, since I hoped at some time to have the opportunity ot 
repeating them to your majesty : ‘ If you have the means of 
making yourself heard by the king and queen, persuade them 
that they and France are lost if the royal family does not leave 
Paris. I am busied with a plan to enable them to go out. At 
any rate, you may assure them that they may reckon upon me.’ ” 


104 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


The queen became thoughtful. 

“ Then the advice of M. de Mirabeau also is that we should 
quit Paris ?” 

“ It was his advice at that time.** 

“And he has changed since?” 

“ Yes, if I may trust to a note received within the last half 
hour.” “ May I see this note ?” 

“ It is intended for your majesty.” 

And Gilbert drew the paper from his pocket. 

“ Your majesty will excuse it,” said he, “ but it is on common 
paper, and was written on the counter of a wine store.” 

“Ah ! that does not matter; paper and desk are quite in 
harmony with the politics of the present period.” 

'I'he queen took the paper and read; 

“ The events of to-day have changed the face of things. 

“ We can succeed well this deal. 

“The Assembly will be afraid, and will establish martial 
law. 

“ M. de Mirabeau could sustain and carry the measure for 
establishing martial law. 

“ M. de Mirabeau could advocate the giving more power to 
the executive. 

“ M. de Mirabeau could attack M. de Necker upon the 
revenue and taxes. 

“ In place of a Necker ministry, it would be easy to make 
a Mirabeau one, and Lafayette will back Mirabeau.” 

“ But,” said the queen, “ this letter is not signed.” 

“ Have I not had the honour to inform your majesty that it 
was Mirabeau himself who placed it in my hand ?” 

“ What do you think of all this ?” 

“ My opinion is that Mirabeau is perfectly right, and that the 
only thing that can save France is the coalition he proposes.” 

“ Well, let M. de Mirabeau send through you a list of the 
ministers he would support, and I will place it before the 
king.” 

“ And your majesty will support it ?** 

“ I will. Then, in the meanwhile, and as a first proof of his 
loyalty, let M. de Mirabeau support the proposition for estab- 
lishing martial law and giving greater power to the executive.” 

“He shall do so. In return, whenever the fall of M. Neckez- 


THE ADVAHTACE OF HAV/XG THE DEAL, 105 

becomes likely, a Mirabeau and Lafayette ministry will not be 
received unfavourably ?” asked Gilbert. 

“ By me ? No ! I am anxious to prove that I am quite willing 
to sacrifice my private feelings for the good of the state. Eut 
you must remember I cannot answer for the king.” 

“ Your majesty will authorise me to tell M. de Mirabeau that 
this list of proposed ministers is asked for by yourself?’’ 

“ I will permit M. Gilbert to use his own discretion as to 
how far he trusts a man who is our friend to-day and may 
become our enemy to-morrow.” 

“ On this point you may confide in me, madame ; only, as 
the circumstances are of great importance, there is no time to 
lose; allow me then to proceed to the Assembly, and endeavour 
to see M. de Mirabeau this very day.” 

The queen made with her hand a sign of acquiescence, and 
Gilbert then took leave. A quarter of an hour later he was in 
the Assembly. 

The Assembly was in a very excited state on account of the 
crime committed at its very gates, and upon a man in some 
sense a dependent of theirs. The members hurried betwixt 
the tribune and their seats ; betwixt their seats and the corridor. 
Mirabeau alone remained immovably in his place. He snt 
with his eyes fixed on the public tribune. His countenance 
brightened on seeing Gilbert 

Gilbert made a sign, which he answered by nodding his 
head. 

Gilbert then tore a leaf from his pocket-book and wrote ; 

Your proposals are received ; not by both, but by the one 
whom both you and I believe has the most power. 

“ They wish to have a list of the proposed members to-Jay. 

“ Cause more power to be given to the executive.” 

When he had folded the paper into the form of a letter, and 
addressed it to M. de Mirabeau, he called an usher and bid 
him carry it to its destination. 

Mirabeau read it with such an expression of perfect indif- 
ference, that his nearest neighbour could not have guessed that 
the letter which he had just received corespiiided exactly with 
his most ardent wishes ; and with the same indifference he 
traced a few lines upon a sheet of paper lying before him, and, 
carefully folding the paper, gave it to the usher. 

“Carry this letter,” said he, “to the gentleman who gave 
you the one you just now brought me.” 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


io5 

Gilbert eagerly opened the paper. 

It contained a few lines which would have altered the future 
state of France, perhaps, if its propositions had been fairly 
carried out. 

“ I will address the Assembly, and assist as far as I can in 
carrying out your views. 

“ To-morrow I will send you a memoir on the present crisis, 
which I hope will be satisfactory. 

“ I send you the list of the ministers I propose ; but I should 
be quite willing to alter a few names if you should wish any 
change. 

Gilbert tore a new leaf from his pocket-book, and wrote 
three or four lines, and gave them to the usher, who was not 
very tar off. 

I am going to our mistress to inform her of what we wish, 
and to tell her on what conditions you will act ; send word to 
my house. Rue St. Honoré, just below L’Assumption, just 
opposite the cabinet maker’s, Duplay, the result of the sitting as 
soon as it is terminated.” 

Always anxious for excitement, and to struggle with political 
feelings, the queen awaited Gilbert’s return with some im- 
patience, especially when listening to the narration of Weber. 

This consisted of the terrible scene whose end Weber had 
arrived in time to witness. 

Sent for information by the queen, he passed by one end 
of the bridge of Nôtre Dame while the other was occupied 
by the bloody cortège who bore the head of François. 

Near the' bridge a young woman, pale, frightened, with 
perspiration standing coldly on her brow, and who, in spite of a 
tendency to embonpoint already visible, was running at a 
tolerably quick pace towards the Hôtel de Ville, stopped 
suddenly. 

This head, whose features she could not as yet distinguish, 
produced upon her, even at that distance, the effect of the 
Medusa’s head upon the shield of Minerva. 

And as the head approached her, it was easy to see by the 
expression of her face that she was all but changed into stone. 

When the horrible trophy was not more than twenty paces 
from her, she uttered a cry, stretched out her hands with a 
desperate movement, and, as if the earth had fallen beneath 
her, she sank fainting on to the bridge. 

It was the wife of Francois, already five months enceinte. 


THE A DF^ HTA GE OF IIAVJHG THE DEAL. 


107 


They carried her away without her Knowing it. “ Oh ! my 
God!” said the queen, “it is a terrible testimony you have 
sent your servant, to teach her that if she is unhappy, tnere 
exist others still more so.” 

Just at this moment Gilbert entered. He did not meet a 
queen, but a woman, that is to say, a wife, a mother. Her 
state of feeling could not have been better, and Gilbert, with 
advice at least, came to offer the means to put an end to these 
murmurs. 

And the queen, looking into his eye, where tears w’ere gather- 
ing, and on his brow, where perspiration stood in big heavy 
drops, seized Gilbert by the hands, and took from them the 
papers which they contained. 

But before looking at this paper, important as it was, 
“Weber,” said she, “ if this poor woman is not already dead, 
I will receive her to-morrow : if she be really enciente, I will 
be the godmother of the child.” 

“Ah ! madame, madame,” cried Gilbert, “why cannot every 
Frenchman * hear your voice broken with emotion, and see the 
hot tears run down your cheeks, as I do.” 

The queen started : they were nearly the same words which 
in a crisis equally critical Charny had addressed to her. 

She cast a hasty glance over the note of Mirabea-u, but was 
too much troubled at this particular time to give an answer. 

At seven o’clock in the evening, a valet without livery 
placed the following letter in Gilbert’s hands : 

“ The sitting has been a w^arm one. 

“ Martial law is carried. 

“Bugot and Robespierre wished to have a still higher court 
at law. 

“ I have caused it to be decreed that Ihe-nation (a new word 
which we have created) shall be judged by the royal privilege 
of Châtelet. 

“ I rely with confidence for the safety of France on tne royal 
power, and three quarters of the Assembly will support it. 

“ To-day is the 21st of October. I hope, even as it is, that 
royalty has made some progress since the 6th instant. 

“ Vale et me amaT 

The note was not signed, but it was in the same handwriting 
as the one which referred to the ministerial changes, and that 
of the morning. It was truly the writing of Mirabeau. 


loS niE COUNTESS DE C II ARN Y. 

Although one can easily understand all that Mirabeau had 
gained, and all that the royal family had consequently lost, we 
must inform our readers what the Châtelet really was. 

One of its first judgments became the object of one of the 
most terrible scenes which occurred in the Grève in the year 
1790 ; a scene which, since it is not foreign to our subject, we 
chall find best to weave into our narrative. 

Le Châtelet had been of great historical importance in 
history, ever since the thirteenth century, and both as a tribunal 
and court had exercised great influences over the mighty ones 
during the five centuries succeeding the good King Louis IX. 
— another king who was a builder, if ever there was one. He 
built Nôtre Dame. He founded the hospitals De la Trinité, De 
Saint Catherine, and De Saint Nicholas, near the Louvre. He 
paved the streets of Paris. He had, in truth, a great bank to 
run to for all these expenses — the Jews, to wit. In 1189 he was 
tinctured with the follies of the time. 

The folly of the time was the wish to take Jerusalem from the 
guardianship of the Soldan. He joined Richard Cœur de Lion, 
and started for the holy places. But before he went, in order 
that the good Parisians should not lose their time, and never 
dream in their leisure moments of revolting against him, as at 
his instigati<')n they had revolted more than once, he left them 
a plan, and bid them execute it after his departure. 

He left them a programme, and bid them build one of those 
thick walls of the twelfth century, ornamented with towers. 

This wall was the third which surrounded Paris. 

It contained, within its bound.s, a number of small hamlets, 
which were destined, eventually, to becon.e a portion of the 
great whole. 

These hamlets and villages, however poor and small they 
might be, possessed each their justice seiorieu 7 Ùale. All these 
justices seigneuriales contradicting each other, from time to time, 
caused great confusion in this strange capital. There was, it 
seems, at this time a certain seigneur of Vincennes, who, having 
apparently more to complain of these contradictions than any of 
the others, determined to put an end to them. 

This seigneur was Louis IX 

And it is easy to understand that when Louis IX. dis- 
tributed justice under the oak, now become proverbial, he did it 
as a seigneur^ not as a king. 

He ordered, however, as king, that all the causes determined 


THE ADVANTAGE OF HAVING THE DEAL. 


109 


by these petty juges seigneuriales should, by appeal, be brought 
before the Châtelet of Paris. The jurisdiction of the Châtelet, 
consequently, was all powerful. 

The Châtelet was then the supreme court cf justice, until 
the parliament took upon itself to determine even the appeals 
of the Châtelet. But the Assembly was about to suspend 
these parliaments. 

“ We have buried them in a very lively fashion,” said Lameth, 
in returning from the sitting. 

And in place of parliament, upon the suggestion of Mirabeau, 
they were about to restore the privileges of the Châtelet, and 
with increased powers. 

This was a great triumph for royalty, since the crime of /^.f^ 
nation would be brought before its own courts. 

The first crime that the Châtelet had . to take cognisance ol 
was the one which we are going to narrate. 

The very day of the promulgation of the law authorizing the 
power of the Châtelet, two assassins of the unhappy François 
were hung in the Grève without any other trial than I accusaiiot 
and the notoriety of the crime. 

Two cases remained for judgment — that of the farmer 
general, Augeard, and that of the inspector-general of the 
Suites, Pierre Victor de Bézenval. 

These w’ere two men devoted to the court, and for this reason 
they hastened to transfer their causes to the Châtelet. 

Augeard was accused of having furnished the funds with 
which the Camarilla of the queen paid, in July, the troops 
assembled in the Champ-de-Mars. The Châtelet acquitted 
him without much scandal. 

Bézenval’s name could not have been more popular — the 
wrong way. He it was who had commanded the Suisses at Ré- 
veillon, the Bastile, and the Champ-de-Mars. The people re- 
membered these three circumstances, and were not indisposed to 
take their revenge. 

Very precise orders w’ere given to the court at Châtelet : 
under any pretence, the king and queen wished M. de Bézenval 
to escape condemnation. 

He knew there was only this double protection to save him. 
As he entered the hall he w^as saluted, almost unanimously, 
wdth cries for his death. “Bézenval à la lanterne!” “Bézenval 
to the gal<îow's !” was bellow’ed forth from all sides. 

With great trouble silence was obtained. 


no 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


One of the spectators profited by it. ** I demand,” ciied he, 
in a loud strong voice, “that he be cut into thirteen pieces, and 
a piece sent to each canton.” 

But in spite of the charges brought against him, and the 
animosity of the audience, Bézenval was acquitted. 

Indignant at this double acquittal, one of the spectators 
wrote four verses on a piece of paper, which he rolled into a 
ball and sent to the president. 

The stanza was signed. This was not all ; the president 
turned in order to seek out the author. The author, seated 
on the end of a bench, solicited by his gesture the attention of 
the president. But before him, the countenance of the president 
fell. He did not dare to have him arrested. The author was 
Camille Dc#>moulins. 

One of those who went out in the crowd, and who, to judge 
from his dress, was a simple bourgeois of the Marais^ addressed 
one of his neighbours, and laying his hand on his shoulder, 
although he seemed to belong to a higher class, said to 
him : “Well, Doctor Gilbert, what do you think of these two 
acquittals 

The one whom he had addressed turned round and looked 
at the questioner, and seemed as if he wished to recognize the 
form, the tones of whose voice he had recognized. “ Of you, 
and not of me, my master, must that question be asked — of you 
who know everything, the present ! the past ! and the future !” 

“ Well, then, I think, after these two shameless acquittals, it 
will be best to pity the poor innocent fellow to be tried next in 
this court.” 

“ But why do you think,” asked Gilbert, “ that the one who 
will succeed them will be innocent, and succeeding them, will 
be punished ?” 

“For the simple reason,” answ^ered the other with the irony 
that seemed to be natural to him, “ that it is customary, in this 
world, for the good to suffer for the bad.” 

“ Adieu, master,” said Gilbert, taking his hand off Cagliostro, 
for even in these few words the terrible sceptic will have been 
recognized. 

“ And why adieu ?” 

“ Because I have something to attend to,” said Gilbert^ 
smiling. 

“ You are going somewhere ?” “ Yes.” 

“ To whom ?— to Mirabeau, to Lafayette, or to the queen ?” 


THE ADVANTAGE OF HAVING THE DEAL, 


III 


Gilbert stopped, and looked at Cagliostro with an uneasy 

air. 

“ Do you know that you frighten me ?” said he. 

“ On the contrary, I should reassure,” observed Cagliostro. 

‘‘ How so ?” 

“ Am I not one of your friends ?” “ I believe so.” 

“ Be sure, and if you want any proof ” “ Well !” 

“ Come with me, and I will give you information about these 
negotiations which you believe are so secret; information so 
secret, that even you, who seem to be conducting them, know 
nothing about them.” 

“ Listen !” said Gilbert ; “ perhaps you will summon to you 
some of those influences vith which you are familiar. But 
never mind, things are so dark that I think I would accept a 
little light even if it came from Satan himself. I will follow you, 
or you may conduct me.” 

‘‘ Oh ! be easy ; it won’t be far ; and it shall be in a place 
where you are not known ; only allow me to nail this coach 
that is passing ; the style of dress in which I have come out 
prevented my bringing my carriage.” And he made a sign to a 
coach that was on the other side of the way. The coach drew 
up, and both got in. 

“ Where shall I take you, my jolly bourgeois ?” asked the 
cabman of Cagliostro, as if he knew, in spite of his apparently 
simple dress, that the latter led the other, and moulded him to 
his will. 

“Where thou knowest,” said Balsamo, making a kind of 
masonic sign. 

The coachman looked at Balsamo with astonishment. 
“ Pardon, monseigneur,” said he, “ that I did not recognise 
you at once.” 

“ This is never my case,” said Cagliostro, in a firm, sonorous 
voice, “ in spite of their number, I never forget any one, from 
the highest to the lowest, of my subjects.” ^ 

The driver shut the door to, mounted his box, and drove at 
a rapid rate to the corner of the Rue Saint-Claude. 

The carriage stopped, and the porter saw the door opened 
with such rapidity as showed the zeal and respect of the driver. 

Cagliostro made a sign to Gilbert to get out first, and then 
he himself descended from the carriage. 

“ Have you nothing to say to me ?” asked he. 

“ Yes, monseigneur,” answered the driver ; “ I was to have 


II2 


THE COUNTESS DE Cil ARN Y, 


made my report this evening, if I were lucky enough to meet 
you.” “ Speak then.” 

“ That which I have to say, monseigneur, ought not to be 
heard or listened to by profane ears.” 

“ Oh !” said Cagliostro, smiling, “ he who listens to us is not 
quite one of the profane ears.” 

This was Gilbert, who had moved some distance. 

But still he could not prevent himself looking at them, and 
listening a little. 

He saw a smile as the driver spoke flit across the counten- 
ance of Balsamo. 

He heard the two names, Monsieur and Favras. 

The report concluded, Cagliostro drew a double louis from 
his pocket, and wished to give it to the driver. But the latter 
shook his head. “ Monseigneur knows well,” said he, “ that it 
is forbidden to receive money for our reports.” 

“ It is not for thy report I wish to pay thee, it is for the 
drive.” 

“ For that I will accept it,” said the driver. And, in taking 
the louis, he added : “ Thanks, monseigneur, my day’s work’s 
done.” And, jumping lightly on his box, lie drove off at a 
round trot, and left Gilbert struck with amazement at what he 
had just heard. 

“ Come,” said Cagliostro, who was holding the door open 
for Gilbert, who never dreamt of entering \ “ will you not come 
in, my dear doctor ?” 

“Yes?” said Gilbert, “excuse me.** 

And he crossed the threshold, staggering like a drunken man. 

In the ante-chamber he saw the same German servant whom 
he had met there sixteen years before. He was standing in the 
same place, and held in his hands a similar book ; only, like 
himself, the count, and the very chamber itself, he had aged 
sixteen years. 

Fritz guessed from his eye the passage down which his 
master intended to conduct Gilbert, and rapidly opening two 
doors, he stopped at the third, to see if Cagliostro had any 
further orders to give. 

This third door was that of the saloon. 

Cagliostro made a sign to Gilbert to enter the saloon, and 
another to Fritz to retire. Only he said, “ I am not at home ’ 
until further orders.” Then, turning towards Gilbert, “ Now sit 
down ; I am quite at your service, dear doctor.” ^ 


THE ADVANTAGE OF HAVING THE DEAL. 


1*3 

Gilbert sighed, and leant his head on his hand. The 
memories of the past had mastered, for a time, at least, his 
present curiosity. 

Cagliostro looked at Gilbert as Mephistopheles might have 
looked at Faust, when that German philosopher imprudently 
let him go before him. 

All at once, he said : “ It seems, dear doctor, that you 

recognise this room again ?” 

“ 'i^es !” said Gilbert ; “ and it recalls the many ooiigations I 
owe you.” 

“ Ah ! bah ! trifles !” 

“ In truth,” said Gilbert, addressing himself as much as 
Cagliostro, “you are a strange man ; and if all-powerful reason 
would permit me to place any faith in the magic stories of the 
middle ages, I should be tempted to believe that you were a 
sorcerer, like Merlin, ora melter of gold, like Nicholas Hamel.” 

“To the world I am so, but not to you. I have never endea- 
voured to deceive you by marvels. You know I have always 
made you understand everything, and if sometimes you have 
seen Truth at my summons issue forth from her well, better 
dressed and clad than is her wont, it is, true Sicilian as I am, 
that I have a taste for tinsel. But let the events of the past 
sleep quietly in the past, in their tomb ; let us speak of the 
present — let us speak of the future, if you like.” 

“ Count, you have called me back to realities ! The future ! 
What if this future were in your hands ! What if your eyes 
could read the indistinct hieroglyphics !” 

“ Let us see, then, doctor, how we are as regards these minis- 
terial arrangements.” 

“ Ministerial arrangements ?” 

“ Yes ; of our Mirabeau and Lafayette ministiy.” 

“ That is one of those vague rumours you, like others, have 
heard repeated, and you wish, by questioning me, to ascertain 
its truth.” 

“ Doctor, you are the very incarnation of doubt, and if there 
is anything terrible about you, it is thai you doubc, not because 
you do not believe, but because you do not wish to believe. 
It will be best to tell you, at first, what you know as well as 1 
do, and afterwards I will tell you what I know better than you.” 

“ I listen, count.” 

“ For the last fifteen days you have spoken to the king ol 
M. de Mirabeau as the only man who can save the monarchy ” 

8 


THE COUNTESS DE CIIARNY^ 


I14 

** It is my opinion, count ; hence you will easily understand 
the present coalition.” 

“It is mine too, doctor ; hence the coalition you have pre- 
sented to the king will fail.” 

“Will fail?” 

“ The king, sufficiently struck by what you had told him — 
pardon me, but I am obliged to commence from the beginning, 
in 01 der to show you that I am not ignorant of any one phase of 
the negotiation — the king, I say, sufficiently struck by what you 
had told him, has conversed with the queen concerning the 
combination, and the queen was less opposed to the project 
than the king even ; she discussed with you the for and against, 
and finished by authorizing you to speak to M. de Mirabeau. 
Is not that the truth, doctor ?” said Cagliostro, looking Gilbert 
in the face. 

“ I must confess that to this time you have kept on the right 
way.” 

“ Well, the queen yielded for two reasons ; the first is, that 
she has suffered much, and to propose an intrigue to her is to 
assist her to forget ; the second reason is, that the queen is a 
woman, and she has been told that M. de Mirabeau is like a 
lion, a tiger, a bear, and no woman knows how to resist the wish, 
so flattering to her vanity, to tame a bear, a tiger, a lion. She, 
said, ‘ It will be curious to bring to my feet the man who hates me, 
and cause him to apologise on the very tribune where he insulted 
me. I shall see him at my knees ; this shall be my reward, my 
vengeance ! And if from this genuflexion any good results to 
France and royalty, so much the better.* But I tell you that 
Mirabeau, the man of genius, the man of wit, the great orator, 
will spend his life and sink into the tomb without ever arriving 
at what all the world would have him attain to — that is to say, he 
will never be minister. Ah ! mediocrity, after all, dear Gilbert, 
is a great protection.” 

“ Then,” asked Gilbert, “ the king opposes the arrangement ?” 

“ Peste ! he takes care ; he must discuss the matter with the 
queen, when he has nearly pledged his word. You know, the 
politics of the king consist in that one word, 72 early ; he is 
nearly constitutional, he is nearly a philosopher, he is nearly 
popular. Go to-morrow to the Assembly, my dear doctor, 
and 5'ou will see what will happen.” 

“ Can you not tell me beforehand ?” 

“ You shall have the pleasure of being surprised.” 


THE ADVANTAGE OF HAVING THE DEAL. 115 

‘‘To-morrow? It is a long time.” 

“ Then do better. It is five o’clock ; in another hour the 
Jacobin club will open. You know these Jacobins are night- 
birds : do you belong to the society ?” 

“ No ; Camille Desmoulins and Danton made me belong to 
the Cordeliers.” 

“As I said, the Jacobin club will meet in an hour. It is a 
society well put together, and one in which you will not be out 
of place — be easy. We will dine together ; after dinner we will 
take a carriage ; we will go to the Rue St. Honoré, and then, 
forewarned twelve hours, you will have time, perhaps, to prepare 
for the blow.” 

“ Monseigneur, dinner is served,” said a valet, opening the 
two leaves of a door leading into the dining-room, splendidly lit 
and sumptuously furnished. 

“ Come,” said Cagliostro, taking the arm of Gilbert. 

Gilbert went wiih the enchanter, entertaining some hope that 
he might gain a little liglit from the conversation, to guide him 
through the dark night which seemed now to surround him. 

Two hours after, a carriage without liveries and emblazonries 
stopped before the steps of the Eglise St. Roch. 

Two men dressed in black descended from the vehicle, and 
passed along the right side of the street, to the little gateway of 
the convent of the Jacobins. 

The two new-comers had only to follow the crowd, for the 
crowd was great. 

“ Will you go into the nave, or take a place in the tribune ?” 
Cagliostro asked Gilbert. 

“ I believe,” said Gilbert, “ the nave is devoted solely to the 
members.” 

“ Without doubt,” said Cagliostro, smiling, “ but do not I 
belong to all societies ? and since I belong to them, do not my 
friends too ? Here is a ticket for you, if you wish ; as for me, 
I have only to speak one word.” 

“They will recognize us as strangers, and make us go out,” 
observed Gilbert. 

“ The society of the Jacobins has been founded three months, 
there are already sixty thousand members in France, and there 
will be four hundred thousand before the year is out ; moreover, 
my dear friend,” said Cagliostro, smiling, “ here is truly the 
Grand-Orient, the centre of all secret societies, and not with 
that imbecile Fauchet, as some think ; and if you have not 

8—2 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


ti6 

the right to enter here as a Jacobin, you have the right to a 
place as one of the Rose Cross.” 

‘‘ No matter,” said Gilbert, “ I like the tribunes best.” 

“ To the tribunes, then,” said Cagliostro. And he went to 
^he right, up a staircase which conducted to the improvised 
tribunes. 

The tribunes were full, but to the first one he addressed 
Cagliostro had only to make a sign, and speak one word in 
a low tone, and two men who were seated before him, as if 
they had been forewarned of his intended arrival, and were 
only there to guard the seats of himself and Doctor Gilbert, 
immediately rose and retired. 

The sitting had not as yet commenced. The members of 
the Assembly were spread confusedly over the nave ; some 
formed themselves into groups, and others promenaded in the 
narrow space left them by their numerous colleagues, while 
others sat alone in the shade, leaning against the massive pillars. 

A few lights sprinkled here and there lessened the gloom, and 
lit up the countenances and figures of those who happened to 
be standing near them. 

It was easy to see, in spite of the darkness, that in the midst 
an aristocratic réunion existed. Embroidered coats, and the 
naval and military uniforms of officers, mottled the crowd, 
reflecting the light from their gold and silver lacings. 

For the lower class there was a second salle below the first, 
which opened at a different hour, so that the people and the 
aristocracy did not elbow each other. For the instruction of 
the people they had founded a fraternal society. 

As for the Jacobins, they were at this time a military society; 
aristocratic, intellectual, and, above all, literary and artistic 

In reality, men of letters and artists were in a majority. 

Gilbert cast a long look at this brilliant assembly, recog- 
nising each, and calculating in his mind all their different 
capacities. 

Perhaps this loyal assembly comforted him somewhat< 

In one word,” said he to Cagliostro, “ what man do you see 
among all these men who is really hostile to royalty ?” 

“ Should I examine them with the eyes of all the world, with 
yours, with those of M. Necker, with those of the Abbé Maury, 
or with my own ?” 

“With your own,” said Gilbert. “Is it not fit that they 
should be examined by the eyes of a sorcerer ?” 


THE ADVANTAGE OF HAVING THE DEAL. 117 

Very well, then ; there are two who are hostile to royalty.” 

“ Oh ! that’s not many among four hundred men.” 

It is enough, if one of these two men is to be the slayer of 
Louis XVI. and the other his successor !” 

Gilbert started. “ Oh !” murmured he, are there here a 
future Brutus and a future Cæsar ?” 

“No less, my dear doctor.” 

“ You will point them out, will you not, count ?” said 
Gilbert, with a smile of doubt upon his brow. 

“ Oh, unbeliever, whose eyes are covered with scales !” mur- 
mured Cagliostro. “I will do more if you wish; I v/iil let 
you touch them with your finger : with which one will you 
begin ?” 

“ I think with the destroyer. I have a great regard for 
chronology. Let us begin wûth Brutus.” 

“ Thou knowest,” said Cagliostro, becoming animated, as if 
he were inspired, “ thou knowest that men do not always 
pursue the same end by the same means. Our Brutus will 
not resemble in any way the Brutus of old.” 

" Only another reason why I should w'ish to see him.” 

“ Very well,” said Cagliostro, “ look at him !” 

And he stretched his arm in the direction of a man who leant 
against the pulpit, whose head only, just at this moment, 
stood forth in the light, the rest of the body being in the 
shade. 

This head, pale and livid, seemed like a head nailed in the 
ancient days of proscription to the tribune. 

The eyes alone seemed to sparkle with an expression of 
hatred almost disdainful, with the expression of a viper that 
know's its tooth contains a mortal venom. They follow^ed in 
their numerous evolutions the fiery and wordy Barnave. 

Gilbert felt a chill run through his whole body. “ Really,” 
said he, “ you have warned me beforehand ; there is here 
neither the head of Brutus nor that of Cromwell.” 

“No !” said Cagliostro, “ but it is perhaps that of Cassius. 
You know, my dear fellow, what Cæsar said : ‘ I do not fear all 
these fat men, these bon-vivants, who pass their days at the 
table and their nights in orgies ; no ! those that I fear are the 
dreamers, with their thin bodies and pale visages.’ ” 

“ He whom you have pointed out certainly fulfils these last 
conditions.” 

‘‘ Then do you not know him ?” asked Cagliostra 


tiS 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


“ Ay !” said Gilbert, looking at him with attention ; “ I know 
him, or rather I recognise him as a member of the National 
Assembly.” “You are right !” 

“ For one of the most long-winded orators of the Left. 

“ You are right !” 

“No one listens when he speaks.” “ You are right !” 

“ A little lawyer of Arras, called Maximilien de Robespierre.” 

“ Quite right I Now look at this head with attention.” 

“ I do.” 

“ What do you see ?” “ Count, I am not a Lavater.” 

“ No, but you may be a disciple.” 

“ I see there is an expression of hatred to genius.” 

“ That is to say, that you too judge him like the rest of the 
world. Yes, it is true, his voice, feeble and a little sharp, his 
thin and sad face ; the skin of his forehead, which seems 
drawn tightly over his skull, like yellow and immovable parch- 
ment ; his glassy eye, which only now and then lets a flash of 
greenish light escape, and then immediatt;ly grows dull ; this 
continual discord of the muscles and the voice ; this laborious 
physiognomy, fatigued through its very immobility ; this invari- 
able olive-coloured dress — yes, I can understand that all this 
ought not to make any very great impression on an Assembly so 
rich in orators ; one which has the right to be difflcult to please, 
accustomed as it is to he lion-like face of Mirabeau, to 
the audacity of Barnave, to the sharp repartee of Maury, the 
warmth of Cazales, and the logic of Sieyès ; but we cannot 
reproach him, as Mirabeau, with immorality ; he is an honest 
man ; he will not desert his principles, and if ever he deserts the 
law, it will be to destroy the old text with the new law.” 

“ But then,” asked Gilbert, “what is this Robespierre?” 

“Well done, thou aristocrat of the seventeenth century. 
‘ What, then, is this Cromwell ?’ asked Earl Stafford, whose 
head the Protector cut off. ‘ A brewer, I believe.’ ” 

“ Would you have me believe that my head runs the same 
risk as that of Sir Thomas Wentworth ?” said Gilbert, forcing a 
smile, which froze on his lips. 

“ Who knows ?” said Cagliostro. 

“Then so much the more reason to take care,” observed 
Gilbert. 

“ What is Robespierre ? Well, perhaps no one in the whole 
of France knows except myself I like to know whence come 
the elected of fate; It assists me to tell where they will go. 


THE ADVANTAGE OF HAVING THE DEAL, 119 

The Robespierres were Irish ; perhaps their ancestors formed 
part of those Irish colonies which, in the sixteenth century, 
came to inhabit the seminaries and monasteries of our southern 
coasts. There they received from our Jesuits the good educa- 
tions they were accustomed to give to their pupils. From 
father to son they were notaries. One branch of the family — 
that from which this man descends — established himself at 
Arras, a great centre, as you know, of noblesse and the Church. 
There w^ere in the town two seigneurs, or rather, two kings ; one 
was the Abbé of Saint Waast, the other was the Bishop ot 
Arras, whose palace threw one half the town into the shade. It 
was in this town that he whom you see there was born in 1759. 
What he did as a child, what as a young man, and what he is 
doing at this moment, I will tell you in two words ; what he 
W'ill do, I have already told you in one word. There w'ere four 
children in the house ; the head of the family lost his wife ; he 
was avocat aux conseils at Arras ; he sank into a profound me- 
lancholy ; he ceased to plead ; started for a journey, and never 
returned. At eleven years old, this one, the eldest, found 
himself at the head of the family in his turn — guardian of a 
brother and two sisters : at his age ! strange ! strange ! The child 
undertook the task, and became a man at once ; in twenty-four 
hours he became what he still remains — a countenance that 
seldom smiles, a heart that has never known joy. He was the best 
pupil of the college. One of the offices of the College of LouLs 
le Grand, in the gift of the Abbé of Saint Waast, was obtained 
for him from that prelate. He arrived alone at Paris, with a 
recommendation to a canon of Notre Dame. In the same year 
the canon died ; nearly at the same time, his youngest and 
best-loved sister died. The shadow of the Jesuits, wTom they 
were about to expel from France, cast itself again upon the 
walls of Louis le Grand. You know this building, where, even 
now, your young Sebastian is studying; its courts, dark and 
melancholy as those of the Bastile, would cloud the happiest 
countenance — that of young Robespierre was already pale, 
they made it livid. Other children went out sometimes. For 
them, the year had its Sundays and fête-days ; for the orphan, 
W'ithout protection, every day was the same. While the others 
enjoyed the air of their family, he breathed that of solitude, 
sadness, and melancholy. Hatred and envy grew up in his 
heart, and took away the flow’er from his soul. This hat’ed 
destroyed the child, and made him a dull young man. Some 


120 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


day, they will not believe in the truth of a portrait of Robes- 
pierre at twenty-four, holding a rose in one hand and the other 
on his breast, with the device, ‘ All for my friend !’ ” 

Gilbert sighed sadly when he looked at Robespierre. 

“ It is true,” continued Cagliostro, “ that when he took this 
device, and had himself painted thus, the girl swore tl at 
nothing on earth should separate their destiny ; he also swore 
it, and he was a man to keep an oath. He travelled for three 
months, and returned to find her married. For the rest, the 
Abbé de Saint Waast was still his friend ; he had given the 
office in the College of Louis le Grand to his brother, and made 
Robespierre one of the judges of the criminal courts. A case to 
be tried — an assassin to punish — came on. Rol-^espierre, too 
full of remorse to dare to take the life of a man, although guilty, 
gave in his resignation. He became an avocat^ because he 
wished to live with and maintain his young sister. The brother 
got on badly at Louis le Grand, but afterwards succeeded 
better. At last the peasants begged him to plead for them 
against the Bishop of Arras. The peasants were right : Robes- 
pierre was convinced of this by a strict examination of the 
evidence ; pleaded, gained the cause of the peasants, and, still 
warm with success, was sent to the Assembly. At the National 
Assembly, Robespierre found himself placed betwixt power- 
ful hatreds and profound contempt — hatred from the clergy for 
having dared to plead against a bishop ; contempt from the 
nobles, since he had been brought up through charity.” 

“ But tell me,” interrupted Gilbert, “ what has he done up 
till to day ?” 

“ Oh, my God ! perhaps nothing to others — enough to me. 
If it did not coincide with my views, the fact of this man being 
poor, I would give him a million to-morrow.” 

“ Once again I ask you, what has he done ?” 

“ Do you remember the day when the clergy came to the 
Assembly to pray the state, kept in suspense by the royal veto, 
to commence their labours ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then read the speech made by the little lawyer of Arras on 
that day, and you will see that if there is not a future shadowed 
forth in this sour vehemence, there is at least eloquence.” 

“ But then ?” 

“ Then ? Ah ! it is true we must skip from May to October, 
when, on the 5th, Maillard, the delegate of the women of Paris’, 


THE ADVANTAGE OF HAVING THE DE AU 121 

came, in the name of his clients, to address the Assembly. 
Well, all the members of the Assembly remained immovable 
and silent. This little lawyer not only showed himself more 
cross and sour, but more audacious than any. All the pretend- 
ing defenders of the public were silent ; he rose twice — the 
first time in the midst of a tumult, the second time in the midst 
of silence. He assisted Maillard, who spoke in the name of 
the famine, and who asked for bread.” 

“Yes, in effect, ’’said Gilbert, thoughtfully; “ but perhaps he 
will change.” 

“ Oh ! my dear doctor, you do not know the Incorruptible, as 
they called him one day; otherwise, who could buy this little 
lawyer, who laughs at all the world ? This man, who, a little 
later — listen, Gilbert, well to what I am now saying — will be the 
terror of the Assembly, is to-day the butt It is agreed among 
the Jacobin nobles that M. de Robespierre is the ridiculous man 
of the Assembly — the one who amuses everybody, and one 
whom all may jeer. In the eyes of Lameth, of Cazales, of 
Maury, of Barnave, of Dupont, M. de Robespierre is a ninny. 
When he speaks, all the world talks; when he raises his voice, 
all cry out; and when he has pronounced — always in favour of 
right, and often to defend a principle — a discourse to which no 
one has listened, the orator fixes his eyes upon some member — 
no matter which — and asks ironically what impression his speech 
has made. One only of his colleagues understands him. Guess 
who that is : Mirabeau. * This man will go great lengths,’ he 
said to me the day before yesterday, ‘ because he believes what 
he says’ — a thing which you know well seems singular to Mira- 
beau.” 

“ But,” said Gilbert, “ I have read the speeches of this man, 
and have found them flat and dull.” 

“ Eh ! mon Dieu, I never said he was a Demosthenes or a 
Cicero, a Mirabeau or a Barnave. No; M. de Robespierre is 
v;hat one chooses to call him. And then they have treated his 
speeches at the printer’s much in the same way as in the tribune — 
at the tribune they interrupted him, in the printing-house they 
mutilated him. The journalists do not even name M. de 
Robespierre. No; the journalists do not know his name ! They 

call him M. B ,M. N or M God and myself alone, 

perhaps, only know what there is in that breast, in that heart. 
In his melancholy apartments of the triste Marais, in his cold 
lodging, poor, badly furnished, in the Rue Saintonge, where he 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


122 

lives carefully on his salary as deputy, he is as lonely as he was 
in the damp courts of Louis le Grand. Until the last year his 
countenance still looked young. He does not leave the J acobins, 
and, from emotion which is invisible to all, he has suffered 
hemorrhage, which has left him senseless two or three times. 
You are a great algebraist, Gilbert, but I defy you to calculate 
the blood which it will cost this noblesse who insult him, these 
priests who persecute him, this king who ignores him, the blood 
which Robespierre loses.” 

“ But why does he come to the Jacobin club ?” 

It is that, hissed at the Assembly, he is listened to at the 
Jacobin. Of the Jacobins Robespierre is the type; society 
abridges itself in him, and he is the expression of society — 
nothing more, nothing less ; he walks in the same time as society 
does, without following it, without being in advance. I promised 
you, did I not, to let you see a little instrument, which has h r 
its object the taking off a head, perhaps two, in a minute ? Well, 
of all the people here present, the one who will give most 
employment to this deadly machine is the little lawyer of 
Arras, M. de Robespierre.” 

“In truth,” said Gilbert, “you are somewhat funereal, and if 
your Cæsar does not make up for your Brutus, I am capable of 
forgetting the cause for which I came here. Pardon, but what 
about Cæsar?” 

“ Look ! you may see him down there. He speaks with a man 
whom he does not know as yet, but who will exert a great influ- 
ence over his destiny. This man calls himself Barras ; do you 
recollect this name, and recall it when necessary.” 

“ I do not know, count, whether you deceive yourself or not,” 
said Gilbert, “ but in any case you have chosen your types well. 
Your Cæsar has a good forehead to carry a crown on, and his 
eyes, though I cannot exactly catch their expression ” 

“ Yes ! because they are cast down. It is those very eyes 
which point out the future, doctor.” 

“ And what says he to Barras ?” 

“ He says that if he h ad defended the Bastile, it would not 
have been taken.” 

“ Then he is not a patriot ?” 

“ Men like him do not wish to be anything until they can 
be it completely.” 

“ And so you have the pleasantry to think so much of this 
little sous-lieutenant ?” 


THE ADVANTAGE OF HAVING THE DEAL. 


123 


“ Gilbert,” said Cagliostro, as he stretched his hand towards 
Kobespierre, as surely as one shall reconstruct the scaffold of 
Charles the First, so surely shall that one ” — and he pointed to 
the sous-lieutenant — “ so surely shall he reconstruct the throne 
of Charlemagne !” 

“ Then,” cried Gilbert, discouraged, “ our struggle for liberty 
is useless ?” 

“ And who has told you that the one will not do as much for 
it with the throne, as the other with the scaffold ?” 

“ He will be, then, a Titus, a Marcus Aurelius — the god of 
peace, coming to console the world for the age of brass !” 

“ He will belong to the line of Alexander and Hannibal ! 
Born in the midst of war, he will become great through war and 
fall by war ! I have defied you to calculate how much blood 
the blood lost by Robespierre will cost the noblesse and the 
clergy ; take the blood which will be lost by priests and nobles, 
multiply them time after time, and you will not have obtained 
a knowledge of the river of iDlood, the lake, the sea of blocd, 
which this man, with his army of five hundred thousand men, 
and his battlesdasting three days, will spill !” 

“And what will be the result of all this ?” 

“ That which results from all beginnings, Gilbert ; we are 
charged to bury the old world ; our children will see a new 
world born. This man is the giant who guards the door. 
Like Louis XIV., like Leo X. and Augustus, he will give his 
name to the age which he commences !” 

“ And what is his name ?” asked Gilbert, m some measure 
controlled by the air of conviction evident in Cagliostro. 

“He is only called Bonaparte at present,” replied the 
prophet ; “ but some day he will call himself Napoleon !” 

Gilbert rested his head on his hand, and sank into a reverie 
so deep that he did not perceive at once that the séa»^re was 
opened, and that an orator had mounted the tribune. 

An hour passed, and the different noises of the Assembly 
had not power sufficient to draw Gilbert from his meditations ; 
then he felt a hand, strong and powerful, laid upon his 
shoulder. 

He turned ; Cagliostro had disappeared, but in his place 
he found Mirabeau. 

Mirabeau’s countenance was filled with anger. 

Gilbert looked at him with a questioning eye. 

** So 1” said Mirabeau. 


124 


THE COUNTESS DE CHAR NY, 


What is it ?” asked Gilbert. 

“ It is that we are played with, baffled, betrayed ; ft is that 
the court does not wish my services ; that it has taken me for 
a dupe, and you for a fool !” 

“ i do not understand you, count !” 

“ You have not heard, then ?” 

“ What ?” “ The resolution which has just been taken.” 

“ Where ?” “ Here.” 

“ What resolution ?” 

“ Then you have slept, have you ?” 

“ No !” said Gilbert, “ I dreamt.” 

“Well, to-day, in reply to my motion of yesterday, which 
proposes to invite the ministers to assist at the national delibe- 
ration, three friends of the king demanded that no member of 
the Assembly should be a minister during the session. Then 
this combination so laboriously constructed passed away 
before the capricious breath of his majesty Louis XVI. But,” 
continued Mirabeau, in the meanwhile, like Ajax, his finger 
pointing heavenwards : “ but, as sure as my name is Mirabeau, I 
will repay them ; and if their breath can overturn a ministry, I 
v/ill show them that mine can upset a throne !” 

“ But,” said Gilbert, “you will not go less to the Assembly? 
You will struggle to the end ?” 

“ I will go to the A ssembly ; I will struggle to the end ! I 
am one of those buried, but beneath ruins !” 

And Mirabeau, half exploding, became more beautiful and 
terrible from the divine furore which the thunder of his passion 
had stamped upon his face. 

The very next day, indeed, upon the proposition of Lanjuinais, 
in spite of the efforts of the superhuman genius brought to 
bear on the question by Mirabeau, the National Assembly 
adopted the following motion by an immense majority : “ That 
no member of the Assembly could be a minister during the 
session.” 

“ And I,” cried Mirabeau, when the decree was voted, 
“ propose an amendment, which shall alter nothing — hefe it 
is ; ‘ All the nembers of the present Assembly may hold office 
and become ministers, except M. le Comte de Mirabeau.’” 

Deaf to this audacity, although spoken in the midst of unb 
versai silence, Mirabeau descended from his desk with that 
step with which he had marched to M. de Dreux Brézé, when 
he said to him, “ We are here by the will of the people, we 


THE ADVANTAGE OF HAVING THE DEAD 


125 

shall not go out except with a bayonet in our stomach.” He 
left the salle. 

The defeat of Mirabeau resembled the triumph of another. 
Gilbert had not even come to the Assembly. He had re- 
mained at home, and dreamt over the predictions of Cagli- 
ostro without believing them ; but meanwhile he could not 
banish them from his mind. The present seemed to him very 
little when compared with the future 1 


CHAPTER XI L 

METZ AND PARIS. 

As Cagliostro had said, as Mirabeau had foretold, it was the king 
who had caused all Gilbert’s plans to prove abortive. The queen, 
who in the offers made to Mirabeau had phced more reliance 
on the curiosity of a woman than the policy of a queen, saw 
without great regret the fall of the whole constitutional structure. 
As for the king, it was his policy to wait, to gain time and profit 
by circumstances. There were also the two intrigues for an 
escape from Paris and a retreat to some fortress ; this was his 
favourite idea. 

These two negotiations we know w^ere those brought about 
on the one hand by M. de Favras, the agent of Monsieur, and 
that of Charny, emphatically the man of Louis XVI. 

Charny had gone from Paris to Metz in tw’o days. He had 
found M. de Souillé at Metz, and had given him a letter. This 
letter, be it remembered, was but a method of putting Charny 
in communication with M. de Souillé, who, though much dis- 
contented with the state of things, acted with great reserve. 

Sefore he gave Charny an answer, Souillé determined, under 
the pretext that Charny’s powers were not extensive enough, to 
send to Paris and communicate directly with the king. For 
this mission he selected his son, Count Louis Souillé. 

Charny would, during these negotiations, remain at Metz. 
There was nothing to call him to Paris, and his almost exagge- 
rated honour made him feel if obligatory on him to remain at 
Metz, as it were a hostage. 

Count Louis reached Paris about the middle of November. 


126 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY 


At this time the king was watched by M. de Lafayette, and 
Count Louis de Bouillé was his cousin. 

He went to the house of one of his friends, whose patriotic 
sentiments were well known, and who then travelled in England. 

To enter the Tuileries unknown to M. de Lafayette was then, 
if not impossible, at least very dangerous to the young man. 

On the other hand, as Lafayette must necessarily be in total 
ignorance of the communications of the king to M. de Bouillé, 
nothing was easier than for Count Louis to call on his cousin 
Lafayette. 

Circumstances seemed to contribute to the young officer’s 
wishes. 

He had been three days in Paris without coming to any deci- 
sion, and ever thinking on a way to reach the king, and asking 
himself if it was not better to call at once on Lafayette, when 
he received a letter, stating that his presence in Paris was known, 
and inviting him to the head-quarters of the staff of the guard, 
at the Hôtel de Noailles. 

The count went to head-quarters. The general had just gone 
to the Hôtel de Ville, where he had business wiih Bailly. He, 
however, saw the general’s aide-de-camp, Romoeuf. 

Romoeuf had served in the same regiment with the young 
co'Unt, and though one belonged to the aristocracy and the other 
to the democracy, they were friends. Since then, Romoeuf had 
gone into one of the reg'ments disbanded after July 14th, and 
served only in the National Guard, where he was aide-de camp 
of Lafayette. The two young men, though differing in other 
matters, each bore love and respect to the king. One loved 
him, however, as a patriot, provided he swore and maintained 
the constitution ; while the other loved him as the aristocrats 
did, on condition that he would refuse the oath, and appeal, if 
necessary, to strangers to bring the peoi)le to their senses. 

Romoeuf was twenty-six, Louis de Bouillé twenty-two. They 
could not therefore talk politics long. 

Count Louis, too, did not wish even to be suspected to have 
any serious idea. 

As a great secret, he told Romoeiif that, on a simple leave, 
he had come to Paris to see a woman he adored. 

While he thus confided in the aide-de-caTr»p, Lafayette appeared 
at the threshold of the door, which had remained open ; though 
he perfectly saw the new-comer in the gl tss placed before him, 
M. de Bouillé went on with his story ; only, that in spite of the 


METZ AND PARIS, 


127 


signs of Romoeuf, which he pretended not to understand, he 
raised his voice, so that the general did not lose a word of what 
w'as said. 

The general heard all, precisely as young Bouillé had intended 
he should. 

Pie continued to advance behind the narrator, and put his 
hand on his shoulder. “ Ah, ha ! M. de Libertin, This is 
the reason why you hide yourself from your relations.” 

The young general of thirty-two was not a very rigid monitor, 
for at that time he was much sought after by the women of 
fashion. Louis was not much afraid of the blowing-up he was 
to get. 

“ I did not conceal myself, my dear cousin, for on this very 
day I intended to have the honour to present myself to the most 
illustrious of them, and would have done so, had I not been 
anticipated by this message.” 

He showed the letter he had just received. 

“ Well, then, do you country gentlemen say that the Parisian 
police is badly organized ?” said the general, with an air of 
satisfaction, proving that on that head his selfesteem was 
interested. 

“We know, general, that we can hide nothing from him who 
watches over the people’s liberty and the king’s life.” 

Lafayette looked aside at his cousin, with an expression at 
once kind, spiritual, and mixed something with raillery, which 
w^e ourselves have seen him use. He knew that the safety of 
the king was a great matter of interest to this branch of the 
family, though popular liberty was of little importance in its 
eyes. Hence he only answered a portion of the last speech. 

“ And has the Marquis de Bouillé, my cousin,” said he, em- 
phatically, using a title he had renounced after the night of the 
4th of August, “given his son no commission to his king 
relating to this safety and protection ?” 

“ He bade me place at his feet the greatest protestations of 
respect,” said the young man, “ if General Lafayette does not 
think me uhworthy of being presented to my king.” 

“ Present you ? and when ?” 

“ As soon as possible, general.” “ Be it so.” 

“ I believe I have had the honour of telling you or Romoeuf 
that I am here without a leave.” 

“ You told Romoeuf ; but, as I heard it, it is all the same. 
Well, good actions should not be retarded. It is eleven; I 


128 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNŸ, 

see the king every day at noon, and the queen also. Eat with 
me, if you have not breakfasted, and I will take you to the 
Tuileries.” 

“ But,” said the young man, looking at his uniform, “ am I 
in costume.” 

“ In the first place, my child, I will tell you that the great 
question of etiquette, your nurse, is very sick, if not dead, since 
you left. When I look, though, your coat is irreproachable 
and your boots clean. What costume so becomes a gentle- 
man ready to die for his king as his uniform ? Come, 
Romoeuf, see if breakfast is ready. I will immediately after 
take M. de Bouillé to the Tuileries.” 

The proposition was too much in accordance with the young 
man’s wishes for him to make any real objection, so he bowed 
an assent at once, and thanked his kinsman. 

Half an hour afterwards, the sentinels at the gates presented 
arms to General Lafayette and the young Count de Bouillé, 
without suspecting that they were at once paying military com- 
pliments to both revolution and counter revolution. 

Every door was opened to Monsieur de Lafayette. The sen- 
tinels saluted, the footmen bowed ; the king of the king, the 
maise of the palace, was easily recognised, as Marat said. 

Lafayette was first introduced into the rooms of the queen ; 
the king was at his forge. 

Three years had passed since M. Louis de Bouillé had seen 
Marie Antoinette. 

The queen had reached the age of thirty-four, as Michelet 
says, a touching age, which Vandyck so loved to paint ; the 
age of a wife, the age of a mother, and, in the case of Marie 
Antoinette especially, the age of a queen. 

During thèse three years, the queen had suffered much both 
in body and mind, and also in self-respect. Thirty-four years 
seemed, therefore, to be written on the cheeks of the poor 
woman, by those slight, changeable violet lines which speak 
of eyes full of tears and sleepless nights, which betray some 
deep sorrow in a woman’s heart, whether she be either woman 
or queen — sorrow incurable until it be extinguished. 

This was the age of Marie Stuart when she was in prison. It 
was the age of her deepest passion, when Douglas, Mortimer, 
Norfolk, and Babington became enamoured of her, devoted 
themselves to, and died for her. 

The sight of this royal prisoner, hated, calumniated, maligned 


M£TZ AND PARIS, 


129 


— the 5th of October had proven those ligns not vain — made a 
deep impression on the chivalric heart of young Louis de 
Bouille. 

Women are never mistaken in the influence they produce. 
It is a portion of the education of kings and queens to remember 
faces they have seen, and as soon as Marie Antoinette savr M. 
de Bouillé, she recognised him ; as soon as she saw him, she 
knew she saw a friend. 

The result was, that even before the count was presented, 
before he was at the foot of the divan on which the queen lay, 
and as one speaks to an old friend who has long been absent 
and who is welcomed back, or to a servant on whose fidelity 
w'e may rely, she exclaimed at once, “Ah ! M. de Bouillé.” 

Without paying any attention to Lafayette, she offered her 
hand to the young man. 

This was one of the queen’s mistakes, and she committed 
many such. M. de Bouillé was hers without this favour, and 
by this favour, granted in the presence of Lafayette, who had 
never been similarly honoured, she established a sign of demar- 
cation which wounded the man of whom she had most need as 
a friend. Therefore, with a politeness which he never laid 
aside, but with some emotion in his voice : 

“ On my honour, dear cousin,” said Lafayette, “ I offered to 
present you to her majesty, but it seems it had been better if 
you had presented me.” 

The queen was so happy to meet a person in whom s’re 
could confide; the woman so proud of the effect she seemtd 
to have produced on the count, that, feeling in her heart one o 
those rays of youth she had fancied extinguished, and around 
her those breezes of spring and youth she thought gone for 
ever, turned towards Lafayette, and, with one of those smiles of 
Trianon and Versailles, said : 

“ General, Count Louis is not a severe republican, as you 
are. He has come from Metz, and not from America ; he 
has not come to Paris to establish a constitution, but to do 
homage. Do not, therefore, be surprised if I grant him, though a 
poor and half-dethroned queen, a favour which, to a country 
gentleman like him, deserves to be called so, while to 
you ” 

And the queen flirted almost as much as a young girl would, 
anxious to say, “ While to you. Sir Scipio, while to you, Sir 
Cincinnatus, such things would be ridieulous.” 


9 


130 


THE COUNTESS DE CIÎARNY. 


“Madame,’* said Lafayette, “I have ever been kind and 
respectful to the queen, though she never understood my re- 
peat or appreciated my devotion ; this is, to me, a great mis- 
fortune, but, perhaps, is a greater one for her.” He bowed. 

The queen looked at him with her clear blue eye; more 
than once Lafayette had spoken to her thus, and more than 
once had she reflected on his words. It was, however, her 
misfortune to entertain a repulsive and intense dislike to the 
man. “ Come, general,” said she, “ be generous ; excuse me, 
pardon me.” 

“ I pardon you, madame ! for what ?’* 

** My enthusiasm for these good De Souillés, who love me 
with all their heart, and of whom this young man is an almost 
electric chain ; I saw his father, his uncles, when he appeared 
and kissed my hand.” 

Lafayette bowed again. 

“ Now,” said the queen, “having pardoned me, let there be 
peace. Let us shake hands, general, as Englishmen and 
Americans do.” 

She gave him her hand ; it was open, with the palm upwards, 
en carte. Lafayette touched, with a slow and cold hand, that 
of the queen, and said, “ I regret that you will never remember, 
madame, that I am a Frenchman. The 6th of October, and 
1 6 th of November, however, are not very distant.” 

“ You are right, general,” said the queen, clasping his hand, 
“it is I who am ungrateful.” She sank back on the sofa, as if 
she were overcome by emotion. 

“ This should not surprise you,” she said ; “ you know the 
reproach is often made me.” Then, lifting up her head, she 
said, “ Well, general what news from Paris ?” 

Lafayette had a petty vengeance to appease, and took the 
present opportunity to do so. 

“ Ah, madame,” said he, “ how sorry I am that you w^re 
not yesterday at the Assembly; you would have witnessed a 
touching scene, which certainly would have moved your heart : 
an old man came to thank the Assembly and the king, for the 
Assembly, you know, is pow'erless without the king, for the 
happiness he owed to it.” 

“ An old man !” said the queen. 

“ Yes, madame ; and what an old man ! He is one of the 
deans of humanity, an old peasant, subject to the capital juris- 
diction of his lord — a hundred and twenty years old. He was 


METZ AND PARIS, 


131 

brought from the Jura to the bar of the Assembly by five 
generations of descendants, to thank them for the decree of 
August the 4th. Can you fancy how a man looked, who wàs 
for fifty years a serf under Louis XIV., and for seventy years 
since 

“ And what did the Assembly do for this man 

“ It rose with one accord, and made him sit down and cover 
himse’f.” 

“ Ah !” said the queen, with the tone peculiar to herself, “ it 
must have been very touching ; I am sorry I was not there ; 
you, however, better than any one else, know that we cannot 
always be where we wish to be.” 

The general, by his motions, signified that he had nothing 
to say. The queen continued, though without the interruption 
of a moment ; 

“ No, I was here, and received the wife of François, whom 
the National Assembly suffered to be killed at its very door. 
Wliat was the Assembly doing then, M. de Lafayette ?” 

“ Madame, you speak of one of the misfortunes which are 
most distressing to the representatives of h ranee. They could 
not prevent the murder, but, at least, they punished the 
murderers.” 

“ Yes ; but that is a small consolation to the poor woman ; 
she is almost crazy, and it is thought that she will give birth to 
a still-born child. If the child live, I have promised to be its 
godmother, that the people may know that at least I am not 
insensible to its sorrows. I ask you, dear general, would it be 
inconvenient to christen the child at Notre Dame ?” 

“ Madame, this is the second time you have alluded to the 
captivity in which it is pretended to your faithful servants 
I keep you. Madame, I say before my cousin, before Paris, 
before Europe, before the world, I wrote yesterday to M. 
Monnier, who laments over your captivity in Dauphiny, that 
you are free. Madame, I have but one request to make, that 
the king resume his hunting parties, and his excursions, and 
that you, madame, accompany him.” 

The queen smiled, like a person unconvinced. 

“ As for becoming godmother to the poor orphan about to 
be born in mourning, in promising to do so, the queen has 
obeyed only the dict-^tes of that excellent heart which makes 
all who approach love her; when the day appointed for the 
ceremony shall have come, the queen can select any church she 

9—2 


132 


THE COUNTESS DE CH ARN Y, 


pleases ; she has but to order, and she will be obeyed. Now,** 
said the general, ‘‘ I await her majesty’s orders for to-da;f.” 

“ To-day, my dear general,” said the queen, “ I have no 
prayer to address you, but that you invite your cousin, if he 
remain long in Paris, to one of the circles of the Princess de 
Lamballe ; you know she receives both for herself and me.” 

“ I, madame,” said Lafayette, “ will take advantage of the 
invitation, both for him and myself. If your majesty has not 
seen me there before, I beg you believe it was because you had 
ceased to manifest any wish to do so.” 

The queen replied by a bow and a smile. This was a 
dismissal. Each one understood his own j art of the scene. 
Lafayette took the dismissal to himself — Count Louis took the 
smile as his. 

They both retired backwards, the one having acquired, from 
this scene, far more bitterness, and the other inspired with far 
more devotion. 

At the door of the queen’s room the two visitors found the 
valet de chambre of the king, Huet. 

The king wished him to say to M. de Lafayette, that having 
begun a curious piece of locksmithing, he wished him to come 
to the forge. 

A forge was the first thing Louis XVI. asked after, on his 
arrival at the Tuileries; and when he learned that this necessity 
had been forgotten by Catherine de Medici and Philibert de 
Lorraine, he selected, on the second story, just above his bed- 
room, a great garret with two stairways, one in his room and 
the other in the corridor, as his locksm’\h shop. 

Amid all the troubles that had assailed him, during the five 
weeks he had been at the Tuileries, Louis XVI. had not for- 
gotten his forge. His forge had been his fixed idea, and he had 
himself taken charge of the arrangement, prescribing a place 
for the bellows, the hearth, the anvil, the bench, and the vice. 
The forge being fixed sound, bastards, hooks, pincers of every 
variety, were soon in their places, and e cry other imaginable 
thing which locksmiths use was in reach. Louis XVI. had 
not been able to resist any longer, and, ever since morning, had 
been busy at that trade which distracted his attention so com- 
pletely, and in which, if we believe Master Gamain, he would 
have been a proficient, had not certain i'^lers, like Turgot de 
Calonne and M. Neckcr, diverted him irom his business by 
talking of the affairs of France, which Gamain might have 


METZ AND PARIS. 


133 


submitted to, but also of the affairs of Brabant, Austiia, Eng- 
land, America and Spain. This is the reason why, being busy 
with his work, Louis XVI., instead of coming to see Lafayette, 
had asked the general to come to him. 

Perhaps, too, having shown the commandant of the National 
Guard his weakness as a king, he was not unwilling to exhibit 
himself in his majesty as a locksmith. 

At the door of the forge, the valet bowed and said, as he was 
ignorant of De Bouillé’s name, “ Whom shall I announce ?” 

“The General-in-Chief of the National Guard. I will present 
this gentleman to his majesty.” 

“ The Commander-in-Ch>ef of the National Guard,” said the 
valet. 

The king turned round. 

“Ah, ah, is it you, M. de Lafayette? I beg you excuse me 
for making you come hither, but the locksmith assures you that 
you are welcome to his forge. A charcoal burner told Henri 
IV., my grandfather, that every charcoal-burner is lord of his 
kiln. I tell you, general, that you are master both of the smith 
and of the king.” Louis XVI., it will seen, began the con- 
versation in almost the same manner that Marie Antoinette had. 

“ Sire,” said l^afayette, “ under whatever circumstances I may 
have the honour to present myself to you, in whatever story, or 
in whatever costume I find you, to me the king is ever the king, 
and I who now offer you my homage will ever be your true and 
devoted servant.” 

“ I do not doubt it, marquis. Have you, though, changed 
your aide-de-camp ? — for I see that you are not alone Does this 
young officer occupy the place of either M. Gouvion or of M. 
Romoeuf?” 

“ This young officer, sire, and I ask permission to present him 
to you, is my cousin. Count Louis de Bouillé, captain of Mon- 
sieur’s regiment of dragoons.” 

“Ah, ah!’ said the king, exhibiting a slight emotion; “yes. 
Count Louis de Bouillé, son of the Marquis de Bouillé ; excuse 
me for not having recognized you, but I am very short-sighted. 
Have you been long from Metz ?” 

“About five days, sire; I am in Paris without any official 
leave, but by permission of my father, and I came to ask 
General Lafayette, my kinsman, the honour of being presented 
to your majesty.” 

“ M. de la Fayette ! 3'ou did well. No one was better calcu- 


THR COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


Î34 

lated to present you at any time, and presentation by no one 
would be more agreeable to me.” 

“ Your majesty,” said Lafayette, not a little puzzled how to 
approach a king who had received him with his sleeves turned 
up, with a file in his hand, and wearing a leathern apron, “ has 
undertaken an important work ?” 

“ Yes, general, I have undertaken the great masterpiece of a 
locksmith, an entire lock. I tell you what I do, so that if Marat 
knew I had gone to work and should say that I forged chains 
for France, you might tell him you know better. You, M. 
de Bouillé, are neither locksmith nor journeyman.” 

“No, sire, but I am an apprentice, and if I could in any way 
be useful to your majesty ” 

“ Ah ! true, my dear cousin, was not the husband of your nurse 
a locksmith ? Your father used to say, that although no ad- 
mirer of the advice of the author of ‘Emile,’- if he had to 
follow it with regard to you, he would make you a locksmith.” 

“ Exactly, sir \ and that is why I had the honour to tell his 
majesty that if he needed an apprentice ” 

“ An apprentice would not be without his use to me, sir,” said 
the king; “what I want, though, is a master.” 

“ What kind of a lock is your majesty making, though ?” asked 
young De Bouillé. “ Spring, double bolt, catch lock, or what?” 

“ Cousin,” said Lafayette, “ I do not know you to be a 
practical man, but as a man of theory, you seem to me 
quite ail conra7it dit jour — I will not say of the trade, for the 
king has ennobled it, but of the art^ 

Louis heard the young gentleman mention the different kind 
of locks With visible pleasure, and said : 

“ No, it is simply a secret lock, known as the Benarde lock, 
with bolts on both sides. I feel, though, that I have over-esti- 
mated my power. Ah ! had I but Gamain; he used to call him- 
self master over master, master over all.” 

“ Is he dead, then, sire ?” 

“ No,” said the king, glancing at the young nobleman, with 
an expression, which seemed to say, “ Do you not understand ? 
— No; he is at Versailles, Rue des Reservoirs, No. 9. The 
old fellow would not dare to come to see me at the Tuileries.” 

“ How so, sire ?” said Lafayette. 

“ For fear of comprom'sing himself. Just now a King of 
France is a very dangerous acquaintance, ani the evidence is, 
that all my friends are either at London, Coblentz, or Turin. 


METZ AND PARIS, 


135 

But, my dear general, if you do not think it inconvenient for 
him to come with one of his apprentices to give the finishing 
stroke, I will send for him.” 

“ Sire,” said M. de Lafayette, quickly, your majesty knows 
perfectly well that you can order what you please, and send for 
whom you will.” 

‘' Yes, prôvlled they submit to be felt -and handled by your 
sentinels as if they were smugglers. Poor Gamain would 
think himself lost, if his files were considered poignards and 
his sack a cartouch box.” 

“I cannot, sire, excuse myself: but I answer to Paris, to 
France, to Europe, for the king's life, and I cannot take too 
much precaution to preserve that precious life. As far as the 
man you speak of is concerned, your majesty may give any 
orders you please.’’ 

“ That is well ; thank you, M. de Lafayette, but I shall not 
need him ^r his apprentice for ten days,” added he, looking at 
M. de Bouille aside. “ I will send my valet de chambre, Durey, 
who is one of his friends, for him.” 

“ When he comes, sire, he will be admitted to his king. His 
name wall be his passport. God protect me, sir, from bearing 
the reputation of a jailer, of a watch dog, or a turnkey. No 
king was ever more free than you are now. I have come even 
to beg your majesty to resume your hunting parties and your 
excursions.” 

“ My hunting parties ! no, thank you. Besides, just now I 
am thinking of other matters. My excursions, you see, are 
different. My last one, from Versailles to Paris, has cured me 
of all desire to w^ander — at least with so many persons.” 

The king again glanced at young De Boiiillé, who by a 
slight motion of the eyes show’ed that he understood his w^ords. 

“ Sire,” said young De Bouillé, “ in two or three days I leave 
Paris ; not, how’ever, for Metz, but for Versailles, where I have 
an old grand-mother, in the Rue des Reservoirs, whom I must 
see. Besides, I am authorized by my father to terminate an 
important family affair, and eight or ten days hence I am to 
see the person from whom I am to receive orders. I shall not, 
therefore, see my father until the early part of December, un- 
less the king washes me at once to go to Metz.” 

“ No, monsieur, no. Take your own time at Versailles. 
Attend to the business the marquis your father has confided 
to you, and when they are done, tell him that I do not forget 


136 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


him, that I know him to be one of my most faithful subjects^ 
and that some day I will recommend him to M. de Lafayette, 
that M. de Lafayette may recommend him to M. du Portail.” 

* Lafayette smiled at hearing this allusion to his omnipotence. 

“Sire, I would long ago have recommended both the 
Messieurs de Bouillé to M. du Portail, had I not the honour 
of being their relation. The fear that it should be said I used 
the king’s favour for the benefit of my family alone has pre- 
vented me.” 

“The king will permit me to say that my father would 
regard as an unkindness, as a disgrace, almost any promotion 
which would deprive him of the means of serving his king.” 

“ Oh ! that is well understood, and I will not permit the 
position of M. de Bouillé to be touched, except to make it 
more consonant with his wishes and with mine. Let M. de 
Lîfayette and myself attend to that, while you attend to plea- 
sure without neglecting business. Go, gentlemen, gp.” • 

He dismissed the two nobles with an air of majesty which 
strangely contrasted with his vulgar dress. Then, when the 
door was shut, he .said : “Well, I think the young man under- 
stood me, and that in eight or ten days, I will find Master 
Gamain and his apprentice, to aid me in putting on my locL” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 

On the evening of the day when M. Louis de Bouillé had the 
honour to be received by the queen first, and by the king after- 
wards, between five and six o’clock, there passed on the third 
and fourth story of an old, small and sombre house, of Rue de 
la Juiverie, a scene to which we beg our readers to permit us 
to introduce them all. 

The interior of the room is miserable ; it is occupied by 
three persons — a man, a woman, and a child. 

The man wears an old uniform of a sergeant of the French 
Guards, venerated since July 14, when the French Guards 
joined the people, and exchanged shots with the Germans 0/ 
M. de Lambesq and the Swiss of M. de Bézenval. 


OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 


Ï37 


He has in his hand a full pack of cards, from the ace, deux, 
trois of the same colour, to king. He tries for the hundredth, 
for the thousandth, and for the ten thousandth time to effect a 
perfect martingale. A card with as many holes as there are 
s:ars lies by him. 

The woman wears an old silk dress ; misery seems in her 
case the more terrible, because it appears with the remnants of 
luxury. Her hair is supported by a copper comb, which once 
was gilt. Her hands are scrupulously clean, and from that 
cleanliness have acquired a certain aristocratic air. Her nai’s 
were carefully rounded ; and her slippers, out of shape and with 
holes made in them here and there, were once brodes, with 
gold, were worn over the remnants of dress stockings. 

Her face was that of a woman of thirty- four or five years, 
which if artistically managed according to the fashion of the day, 
would give the wearer a right to assume any age with lustrum, 
as the Abbé Cellé said, and even two lustra ; women ever 
cling closely to twenty-nine. That face, however, without 
rouge and Spanish white, deprived of all means of concealing 
grief and misery, the third and fourth wings of time, seemed 
four years older than it was in fact. 

The child is five years old ; his hair is frise au chenihin ; h’s 
cheeks are round ; he hiis the devilish eyes of his mother, the 
gourmande mouth of the father, and the caprices and idleness 
of both. 

He is clad in the remnants of an old mottled velvet habit: 
and while he eats a piece of bread covered with confits by the 
grocer at the next corner, tears to pieces the remnant of an old 
tri-coloured sash fringed wi:h copper, and throws the fragments 
into an old grey felt hat. 

The room is lighted by a candle with a huge wick, to which 
an empty bottle serves as a candlestick, and which, while it 
places the man in the light, leaves the rest of the room in total 
darkness. 

If after all this explained, with our usual precision, the reader 
has learned nothing, listen. 

The child speaks first ; after having thrown down the last of 
his bread and butter, and thrown himsdf down on the bed, 
which is now reduced to a mere mattress: 

‘ iVfamma I do not want any more bread and preserves, puh f 

“Well, Toussaint, what do you wish?” 

“ A piece of barley-sugar.” 


THE COUNTESS DE C/IAEXV, 


“Do you hear, Beausire ?” said the woman. 

“ He shall have some to-morrow.” 

“ I shall have it to-night !” cries the child, with an angry y el 
which betokens a stormy time. 

“ Toussaint, my child, you had best be silent, or I will hav 
to settle with you !” 

“ You touch him, drunkard !” said the mother, “ and you 
will have to settle with me,” and she stretched forth that white 
hand, which, thanks to the care taken with her nails, might on 
occasions become a claw. 

“ Who the devil wishes to touch him ? You know very well 
what I mean, for though one sometimes beats the dresses of 
Eve, mother, one always respects the jacket of the child ; 
come, kiss your dear Beausire, who in eight days will be rich 
as a king.” 

“ When you are rich as a king, my dear fellow, I will kiss 
you ; but — now ! no, no !” 

“ But I tell you, it is certain as if I had a million. Give 
me an advance for good luck, and then the baker will trust us.” 

“ Bah ! the idea of a man who wants credit for four pounds 
of bread, talking about millions !” 

“ I want some barley-sugar,” cried the child in a tone 
becoming more and more menacing. 

“ Come now, you man of millions, give the child some barley- 
sugar !” 

“ Well,” said he, “ yesterday I gave you my last piece of 
twenty-four sous.” 

“ Since you have money,” said the child, turning to her 
whom M. Beausire called Olive, “ give me a sou to buy some 
barley- sugar.” 

“ Here are two, you bad boy, and take care not to hurt 
yourself as you go down the steps.” 

“ Thank you, dear mother,” said the child, leaping up with 
joy, and now reaching her his hand. 

The woman having looked after the child until the door 
closed on him, glanced at the father, and said : 

“ Ah ! M. de Beausire ! will your intelligence extract us 
from our miserable condition? Unless it do, I must have 
recourse to mine.” 

She pronounced these last words with the finniking air of a 
woman who looks in the glass and says do not be alarmed; 
with srch a face one does not die of hunger. 


OLD ACQUAINNTACES, 139 

** You know, dear Nicole, that I am very busy,** said M. de 
Beausire. 

“Yes, in shuffling cards and pricking a piece of paste-board.” 

“ But since I have found it !” “ Found what ?” 

My martingale 1” 

“ There you begin again ! M. de Beausire ! I warn you that 
I shall go among my old acquaintances, and see if I can find 
no one who has influence, and who will be kind enough to 
lock you up as a madman at Charenton 1” 

“ But if I tell you, it is infallible !” 

“Ah ! if M. de Richelieu were not dead!” murmured the 
woman in a low voice. 

“ What do you say ?” 

“If the Cardinal de Rohan \vere not ruined !” 

“ What then ?” 

“ One might find resources, and one would not be forced to 
share the misery of an old rector like this !” 

With the gesture of a queen, Madem.oiselle Nicole Legay, 
called Madame Olive, pointed disdainfully at Beausire. 

“ But I tell you,” said the man, “ to-morrow we shall be 
rich !” 

“ Worth millions ?” “ Worth millions !' 

“ M. Beausire, show me the first ten louis of your millions, 
and I will believe the rest !” 

“ Well, you shall see this evening the ten first louis d’or. 
That is exactly the sum promised me.” 

“And you wall give them to me, dear De Beausire?” said 
Nicole, eagerl)’. 

“ I will give you five to buy a silk dress for yourself and a 
velvet jacket for the young one. 

“ And w’ith the other five I will win the millions i 

“ You are going to play again ?” 

“ Yes. I have found my martingale.” 

“ Yes, like that one with which you lost the sixty thousand 
livres left of your Portuguese business !” 

“ Money idly earned never lasts,” said Beausire, sententiously. 
“ I always thought that from the manner that money was ac- 
quired, it would do us no good.” 

“ Then this comes to you by inheritance ? You had an uncle 
who died in the Indies, I presume, and he has left you these ten 
louis ?” 

“ These ten louis, Mademoiselle Nicoie Legay ” said Beau* 


140 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARS V. 


sire, with an air of great superiority, “ will be gained honestly ! 
do you understand ? even honorably ! The more so, as it is a 
cause in which I and all the nobility in France are interested.” 

“You are then noble, M. Beausire?” said Nicole mockingly. 

“ Say De Beausire, if you please, Madame Legay de Beausire,” 
added he ; “as the certificate of your child’s birth, in the register 
of the church of St. Paul, which your servant Jean Baptiste 
Toussaint de Beausire signed when he gave the boy his own 
name.” 

“ A very pretty present,” murmured Nicole. 

“ And my fortune,” added De Beausire, emphatically. 

“ If you grant him nothing else, the poor child is certain to 
die in the almshouse or hospital.” 

“Indeed, Nicole,” said the man. “This is insupportable, 
you are never satisfied.” 

“ Then, do not hear it,” said Nicole, letting loose the dyke 
of her long-repressed wrath. “ Eh ! good God ! who asks you 
to hear it ? I'hank God I am not anxious either for myself or 
for my child, and am ready this very evening to seek my fortune 
elsewhere.” Nicole took three steps tovar Is the door. 

Beausire advanced to the same door, which he barred with 
his arms. “ But when you are told that this fortune ” 

“ Well !” said Nicole. 

“ Will come this evening. Even if the martingale be lost, 
which is impossible, after all my calculations, we will only have 
lost five louis. That is all.” 

“ There are moments when five loiiis are a fortune, Mr. 
Spendthrift. You do not know that you have wasted the whole 
of our income.” 

“That, Nicole, proves my merit. If I did waste, I w'asted 
what I had gained. Besides, there is a god w'ho watches over 
adroit people.” 

“ Ah yes ! down there, perhaps.” 

“Nicole,” said Beausire seriously, “are you an atheist ?” 

Nicole shrugged her shoulders. 

“ Do you belong to the school of Voltaire, which denies a 
providence ?” 

“ Beausire, you are a fool 1* 

“ There is nothing astonishing in the fact that one sprung, 
like you, from the people, should have such ideas ; but I inform 
you, that they do not suit my social caste, and my ideas of right 
and wrong.” 


OLD ACQUAINTANCES, 


141 


**M. de Beausire, you are insolent.” 

“ I, do you understand me, madame ? have faith, and if any 
one should say that my son, Jean Baptiste Toussaint de Beau- 
sire, who went downstairs with two sous, to buy a piece of 
barley-sugar, will come up with a purse of gold in his hand, I 
would say, certainly, if it be the will of God.” 

Beausire lifted his eyes piously to heaven. 

“ Beausire, you are a fool !” 

Just then the voice of the young heir was heard on the stair- 
way, shouting lustily, “ Papa ! mamma 1” and the nearer he 
came, the louder he bellowed. 

“ What has happened?” said Nicole, as she opened the door 
anxiously, as even the worst mothers do for their children’s 
sake. “Come, child, come.” 

Papa ! mamma !” said the voice, coming closer and closer, 
like that of ventriloquist, imitating sounds from the depth of a 
cave. 

“ I would not be surprised,” said Beausire, “ if the miracle 
were accomplished, for the child’s voice is so joyous, that he 
may have found the purse spoken of.” 

Just then the child appeared at the top step of the stairway, 
and rushed into the room, having in one hand a stick of barley- 
sugar, clasping a bundle of candy to his breast, and showing in 
his right hand a louis d’or, which in the dimness of the candle 
shone like the star Aldebaran. 

“ My God !” said Nicole, suffering the door to close itself. 

What has happened ?” 

She covered the gelatinous face of the young vagabond with 
such kisses that nothing makes disgusting, for they ate a 
mother’s. 

“ This is,” said Beausire, adroitly taking possession of the 
gold louis d’or, “good, and, is worth twenty-four livres.” 

Pie then said to rfie child, “ lell me, my son, where you 
found this ; for I wish to look for the others.” 

“ I did not find it, papa,” said the child. “ It was given to 
me.” 

“ Who gave it to you ?” said the mother. 

“ A gentleman, who came into the grocer’s while I was there,” 
and as he spoke, the young scamp crushed the barley-sugar in 
his teeth ; “ a gentleman^^ ” 

Beausire othoed the words, “A gentleman ?” 

“ Yes, papa, a gentleman, who came into the grocer’s while I 


142 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


was there, and said, ‘ Monsieur, do you not now serve a noble- 
man named De Beausire ?’ ” 

Beausire looked up proudly, and Nicole shrugged her 
shoulders. “ What, said the grocer, my son ?” asked Beausire. 

He replied : ‘ I do not know if he be noble or not, but his 
name is Beausire.’ ‘ Does he not live near here ?’ asked the 
gentleman. ‘ Here, in the house next door to the left, on the 
third story, at the head of the staircase. This is his son.’ ‘ Give 
all sorts of good things to this child,’ said he, ‘ I will pay.’ He 
then said to me, ‘ Here, my lad, is a louis, to buy more when 
they are gone.’ He then put the money in my hand, the grocer 
gave me this package, and I left very well satisfied. Where is 
my louis ?” 

The child, who had not seen the sleight of hand by which 
Beausire took possession of his louis, began to look around for 
it everywhere. 

“Awkward fellow,” said Beausire, “you have lost it.” 

“ No, no, no !” said the young one. 

The discussion might have been serious, out for an event we 
are about to relate, and which necessarily terminated it 

While the child, though evidently in doubt himself, was hunt- 
ing everywhere on the floor for the money, which was snugly 
ensconced in Beausire ’s pocket, while Beausire admired the 
intelligence of young Toussaint, manifested by his relating the 
story we just told, while Nicole partook of her husband’s 
admiration of the precocious eloquence, and asked who the 
bestower of bonbons and giver of gold possibly could be, the 
door opened, and a voice of exquisite softness exclaimed : 

'■'‘Bon soii\ M de Beausire^ bon soBy Toussainty bon soir y 
Mdlle, Nicoler 

All turned to the place whence the voice came. At the door, 
smiling on this family picture, was a man elegantly dressed 

“ Ah ! the gentleman who gave me the bonbons 1” exclaimed 
Toussaint. 

“ Count Cagliostro !” said Nicole and Beausire. 

“ You have a charming child, M. de Beausire, and you 
should be proud of him.” 

After these gracious words of the count, there was a moment 
of silence, during which Cagliostro advanced to the middle of 
the chamber, and looked around him, without doubt, to form 
an idea of the moral and pecuniary condition of his old 
acquaintances. 


OLD ACQUAINTANCES, 


*43 


•* Ah ! monsieur ! what a misfortune, I have lost my louis !” 
exclaimed Toussaint. 

Nicole was about to tell the truth, but she reflected that if 
she held her tongue, the child might get another louis, which 
she would inherit. 

Nicole was not mistaken. 

“You have lost your louis, my poor child ?” said Cagliostro ; 
“ here are two more ; try not lose them this time.” 

“ Here, mamma,” said he, turning to Nicole, “ here is one 
for me, and another for you.” 

The child divided his treasure with his mother. 

Cagliostro had remarked the tenacity with which the false 
sergeant followed his purse. As he saw it disappear in the 
depth of his pocket, the lover of Nicole sighed. 

“ Eh ! what, M. de Beausire,” said Cagliostro, “ always melan- 
choly ?” 

“ Yes, count, and you always a millionaire.” 

“ Eh, my God ! You, who are one of the greatest philanthro- 
pists I ever knew in all modern times and in antiquity, should 
be aware of an axiom, honoured in all times, ‘ Mo7iey docs not 
bi'in^ happiness.^ I have seen you comparatively rich.” 

“ Yes, it is true. I had a hundred thousand francs. But what 
are a hundred thousand francs to the huge sums you expend ?” 

“ Now tell me,” said Cagliostro, “ would you change your 
position, even though you have not one louis, except that you 
took from the unfortunate Toussaint !” 

“ Monsieur !” said the old bailiff. 

“ Do not let us quarrel, M. de Beausire ; we did so once, 
and you had to look on the other side of the window for your 
sword. You remember ? See what a thing it is to have me- 
mory. Well, I ask you now, would you change your position, 
though you have only the unfortunate louis you took from poor 
Toussaint,” on this occasion the allegation passed without any 
recrimination, “ for the precarious position from which I have 
sought to extricate you.” 

“ Indeed, count, you are right : I would not change. Alas, 
at that time I was separated from my dear Nicole.” 

“ And slightly pursued by the police, on account of your Por- 
tugal affair, M. de Beausire? It was a bad affair, as far as 
I can recollect.” 

■ “ It is forgotten, count,” said Beausire. 

‘‘ Ah ! so much the better, for it must have made you un- 


144 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY 


easy. Do not, however, be too confident that such is the case 
Rude divers are found in the police, and it matters not how 
deep the waters of oblivion be, some of them might reach the 
bottom ; a great crime is found as easy as a rich pearl.” 

“ But, count, for the misery to which we are reduced ” 

“ You would be happy. You only need a thousand louis tc 
be completely happy.” 

The eyes of Nicole glittered ; those of Beausire seemed a jet 
of flame. 

Beausire said, “ With the half we would buy, that is to say, 
had we twenty four thousand livres, we would buy a farm, with 
the other, some little rent, and I would become a labourer.’ 

“ Like Cincinnatus.” 

“While Nicole would devote herself entirely to the educa- 
tion of her child.” 

“ Like Cornelia. Monsieur de Beausire, this would be 
beautiful ; but you do not expect to earn that money in the 
affair you are at present engaged in.” 

Beausire trembled. “ What affair ?” 

“ That in which you are to figure as a sergeant of the guards — 
the affair for which you have a rendezvous to-night under the 
arches of the Place Royale.” 

Beausire became pale as death. “ Count,” said he, clasping 
his hands in a supplicating manner. 

“ What ?” “ Do not ruin me.” 

“ Good ! you digress already ; am I a policeman ?” 

“Now I told you,” said Nicole, “ that you were engaged in 
some wicked business.” 

“Then you too, Mdlle. T^egay, know about this business?” 

“ No, count, only this ! whenever he conceals anything from 
me, the reason is, that it is bad, and I cannot be quiet.” 

“ Everything has a good and a bad side ; good for some, 
bad for others ; any operation cannot be good for all or bad 
for all. Well, it is important to be on the right side.” 

“ Well and it appears that I am not to be on the right side ?” 

“ Not at all, M. de Beausire, not at all ; I will add even, that 
if you engage in it on this occasion, not your honour, but your 
life will be in danger ; besides risking your fortune, you will 
certainly be hiing.” 

“ Monsieur,” said De Beausire, trying to keep his counten- 
ance, but wiping away the sweat on his brow, “ noblemen are 
not hung.” 


OLD ACQUAINTANCES, 


MS 

** That ÎS true ; but to obtain the honour of decolation, it will 
be necessary to prove your pedigree, which probably is so long, 
that the court would become w'eary, and order you to be hung. 
But perhaps you will say, when the cause is good the mode 
matters little ; 

‘ ’Tis not the axe that brings disgrace, but crime P 
as a great poet has said.’* 

Yet, more and more terrified, De Beausire said : “Yes; one 
is not so much devoted to his opinions as to shed one’s life 

fort hem.” “ Diable, ‘ one can live but once,’ as a great poet 

said, not so great as the first, however, but who yet had some- 
thing of reason about him.” 

“ Count, in the course of the little intercourse I have had 
with you, I have observed that you have a way of talking which 
makes a man’s hair stand erect, especially if he be a timid 
man.” 

“ Diable, that is not my intention,” said Cagliostro ; “ besides, 
you are not a timid man.” 

“ No,” said Beausire, * not if it be necessary to be otherwise, 
but under certain circumstances.” 

“ Yes, I understand : where the galleys for theft are behind a 
man, and before him a gallows for high treason, lese-natiofi now, 
as it used to be called Tese-viajcstè. It would be now lese-naiion 
to carry away the king.” 

“ Monsieur !” said Beausire, with terror. 

“Unfortunate man !” said Oliva; “was it on this carrying 
away that you built all your hopes of gold ?” 

“ And he was not altogether wrong, my dear, except as 1 had 
the honour just now to tell you, everything has a good and a 
bad side. Beausire was stupid enough to kiss the bad faces, to 
side with the wrong parties ; he has but to change, and all will 
be right.” 

“ Has he time ?” “ Certainly.” 

“ Count,” cried Beausire, “ what must I do ?” 

“ Fancy one thing, my dear sir,” said Cagliostro. 

“What?” 

“ Suppose your plot fails ; suppose the accomplices of the 
masked man, the man with the brown cloak, be arrested and 
condemned to death. Suppose — do not be offended by sup- 
position ; after supposition we will ultimately arrive at a fact 
— suppose yourself one of those accomplices — suppose the rope 

lO 


THE COUNTESS DE CHAENY. 


146 

around your neck, and in reply to yoiir lamentations you were 
told — for in such a situation a man always laments, more or less, 
be he ever so brave ” 

“ Go on, count, go on, for mercy’s sake. It seems to me I 
am already strangled.’* 

“ Pardieu, it is not surprising, I suppose, to you to feel the 
rope around your neck, eh ? Well, suppose they were to reply 
to all your lamentations, my dear M. de Beausire, ‘ It is your 
own fault.’” 

“ How so ?” said Beausire. 

“ ‘ How is this ?’ the voice will say ; * you might not only 
have escaped from the unpleasant fix in which you are, but also 
have gained a thousand louis, with which you could have 
bought the pretty house in which you were to have lived with 
Mademoiselle Oliva and little Toussaint, with the income of 
five hundred livres, derived from the twelve thousand not ex- 
pended in the purchase of the house, you might live, as you 
say, like a farmer, wearing slippers in summer and wooden shoes 
in winter. Instead of this charming picture, however, we have 
before our eyes the Place de Grève, planted with two or three 
ugly-looking scaffolds, from the arm of the highest of which you 
hang. Pah ! De Beausire, the prospect is bad.’” 

“ How, though, could I escape this evil exit? How else 
could I have gained the thousand louis, and assured the tran- 
quillity of Nicole and Toussaint ?” 

“You still will ask questions. ‘Nothing will be more facile,’ 
the voice will reply. ‘You had Count Cagliostro within two 
feet of you.’ ‘ I know him,’ you will say ; ‘ a foreign nobleman 
living in Paris, and who is wearied to death when news is 
scarce.’ ‘ That is it ; well, you had only to go to him, and 
say, “ Count.” ’ ” 

“ I did not, though, know where he lived— I did not know 
that he was in Paris — I did not even know that he was alive.” 

“ ‘ Then, my dear M. de Beausire,’ the voice will answer, 
‘he came to you for the very purpose, and from that time 
confess that you had no excuse. Well, you had only to say 
to him: “Count, I know you are always anxious for news.” 
“ I am.” “ I have something rare : Monsieur, the brother of the 
king conspires ” — “ bah ! yes,” — “ with the Marquis de Favras ” 
— “ not possible !” — “ yes, I speak advisedly, for lam one of 
his agents.” “ Indeed ! what is the object of the plot ?” “ To 

carry away the king, and carry him to Peronne. Well, count, 


OLD ACQUAINTANCES, 


147 


to amuse you, I will come every day and every hour to inform 
you of the, state of affairs.” Then the count, who is a generous 
nobleman, wçuld have answ^ered : “ M. de Eeausire, will you 
really do this^” “Yes.” “ Well, as every trouble deserves a 
salary, if you keep the promise you have made, I have in a 
certain place tw^enty-four thousand livres, which will be at your 
service : I will put them on this risk, that if you inform me of 
the day when the king is to be taken away by M. de Favras, 
W'hen you come to tell me, on my honour as a gentleman, the 
twenty-four thousand livres will be given you, as are these ten 
louis, not as a loan to be repaid, but as a simple gift.”*” 

At th«se W'ords, Cagliostro took the heavy purse from his 
pocket, and took ten louis, which, to tell the truth, Beausir« 
advanced an open hand to receive. 

Cagliostro put aside his hand. 

“ Excuse me, M. de Beausire, but I suppose we can return 
to suppositions?” 

“ Yes ; but,” said M. de Beausire, whose eyes shone like tw^o 
pieces of burning coal, “ did you not say, count, that from sup- 
position to supposition, we would gradually reach the fact ?’* 

“ Have we reached it ?” 

Beausire hesitated ; let us say that it w^as not poverty, fidelity 
to a promise, nor conscience, which caused this hesitation. No ; 
he simply w’as afraid that the count would not keep his w'ord. 

“ My dear Beausire, I know what is passing in your mind.” 

“ Yes, count, you do ; I hesitate to betray a confidence 
reposed in me.” 

Looking up to heaven, he shook his head, like a man who 
says, “ Ah, it is very hard !” 

“ No, that is not it, and you are another proof of the truth of 
the proverb, ‘ No one knows himself.* ” 

“ What then is it ?” asked Beausire, a little put out by the 
facility with which the count read every heart. 

“ You are afraid that after having promised, I will net give 
you the thousand louis.” 

“ Oh, count !” 

“ All is natural enough ; but give me a security. For though 
I proposed the matter, I should be safe.*' 

“ Security ; the count certainly needs none.” 

“A security, which satisfies me, body for body.* 

“WLat security?” asked De Beausire. 

“Mademoiselle Nicole Oliva Legay.” 

10 — 2 


148 THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 

“Oh said Nicole, “if the count promises, it is enough ; it 
is as certain as if we had it, Beausire.” 

“ See, monsieur, the advantage of fulfilling our promises scru- 
pulously. One day, when. Mdlle. Legay was much sought after 
by the police, I made her an offer, to find a refuge in my house. 
She hesitated. I promised, and in spite of every temptation I 
had to undergo, and you, sir, can understand them better than 
any other, I kept my promise, M. de Beausire. Is not that so, 
Mdlle. ?” 

“Yes, by our little Toussaint, I swear it.” 

“ Do you think, then, Mdlle. Nicole, that I will keep my word 
to M. de Beausire, to give him a thousand louis, if he will 
inform me of the day of the king’s flight, or De Favras’ arrest, 
without taking into consideration that I now loose the knot being 
woven around his neck, and you be for ever removed from 
danger of the cord and gallows. Apropos of that old affair. I 
do not promise for the future; for one moment let us talk. 
There are vocations.” 

“ For my part, monsieur,” said Nicole, “ all is fixed as if tne 
notary had already set his seal on it.” 

“Well, my dear lady,” said Cagliostro, as he arranged on the 
table the ten louis, which he had not parted with, “ infuse your 
convictions into the heart of M. de Beausire, and all is decided.” 
He by a gesture bade her talk to Beausire. 

The conversation lasted only five minutes, but, it is proper to 
say, was very animated. 

In the interim, Cagliostro looked at the pierced card, and 
shook his head, as if he recognised an old acquaintance. 

“ Ah, ah !” said he, “ it is the famous martingale of M. Law, 
which you have discovered again. I have lost a million on it.” 

This observation seemed to give a new activity to the conversa- 
tion between Beausire and Nicole. At last Beausire decided. 
He advanced to Cagliostro, open handed, like a man who had 
just made an indissoluble contract 

The count drew back his hand, and said, “ Monsieur, among 
gentlemen, a word passes. I have given you mine, give me 
yours.” 

“ By my faith, sir, it is settled.” 

“ That is enough, sir,” said Cagliostro. 

Taking from his pocket a watch, enriched with diamonds, on 
which was the portrait of King Frederick of Prussia, he said : 

“ It wants a quarter of nine, M. de Beausire; at nine exactly. 


OLD ACQUAINTANCES, 


149 


you are expected under the arches of the Place Royale, on the 
side of Hotel Sully ; take these louis, put them in your vest 
pocket, put on your coat, gird on your sword ; you must not be 
waited for.’* 

Beau sire did not wait to be told twice. He took the money, 
put it in his pocket, put on his coat, and left. 

“ Where shall I find you, count ?” 

“At the cemetery of St. Jean, if you please. When one 
wishes to talk of such things, without being heard, it must not 
be among the living.” 

“ And when ?” 

“ As soon as you be disengaged. The first will wait for the 
second.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

ŒDIPUS AND LOT. 

It wanted but a few minutes of midnight, when a man coming 
from the Rue Royale into that of St. Antoine, followed the latter 
to the fountain of St Catherine, and at last reached the gate of 
the Cemetery St. Jean. 

There, as if his eyes had feared to see some spectre start from 
the ground, he waited, and with the sleeve of his coat, the 
uniform of a sergeant of the guards, he wiped the heavy drops 
of sweat from his brow. 

Just as the clock struck twelve, something like a shadow 
appeared to glide amid the ivies, box-trees, and cypresses. This 
shadow approached the grate, and by the grating of the key in 
the lock, one might see that the spectre, if such it was, not only 
had the privilege of leaving the tomb, but, when once out, of 
leaving the cemetery. 

When he heard the key turn, the so/dier drew back. 

“ Well, M. de Beausire,” said the mocking voice of Cagliostro, 
“ do you not know me, or have you forgotten our rendezvous ?” 

“ Ah ! is it you ?” said Beausire, breathing like a man, the 
heart of whom is relieved from a heavy burden. “ So much the 
better. These damned streets are so dark and deserted, that 
one does not know if it be better to travel alone, or to meet 
anybody.” 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


^ 5 ^ 

“Bah!” said Cagliostro, for you to fear anything, at any 
hour, either of the day or night ! You cannot make me believe 
that of a brave man who travels with his sword by his side 1 
There,” said Cagliostro, “ follow this little path, and about twenty 
paces hence we will find a kind of ruined altar, on the steps of 
which we will be able to talk at ease of our affairs.” 

Beausire hurried to obey Cagliostro ; but after a moment of 
hesitation, said : 

“Where the devil is the path? I see only briars which 
wound my elbows, and grass which reaches to my knees.” 

“ The fact is, the cemetery is in worse order than any I know 
of, but that is not surprising. You know that none are buried 
here but criminals executed in the Grève, and nobody takes an 
interest in those poor devils. Yet, my dear M. de Beausire, we 
have many illustrious characters here. If it were day, I could 
show you where the Constable de Montmorency lies. He was 
executed for having fought a duel ; the Chevalier de Rohan for 
having conspired against the government ; the Count de Horn, 
who was broken on the wheel for having assassinated a Jew ; 
Damiens, who was quartered because he sought to kill Louis 
XV.; and who knows who else? You are wrong to speak ill of 
the cemetery of St John. It is not kept well, but is very full. 
However,” said Cagliostro, pausing near a kind of ruin, “ here 
we are !” 

Sitting on a broken stone, he pointed out to Beausire a stone 
which seemed designated by the first to spare Cinna the trouble 
of removing his seat to the side of that of Augustus. 

“ Now we are at our ease and able to talk, my dear M. de 
Beausire,” said Cagliostro, “ tell me what took place this even- 
ing under the arches of the Place Royale ; was the meeting 
interesting?” 

“ Ma foi,” said Beausire, “ I own, count, that my head just 
now is a little bothered, and need I say each of us would gain 
if you adopted the system of questions and answers ?” 

“ So be it,” said Cagliostro ; “ I am easy, and provided I 
obtain my end, do not care what means be adopted. How 
many were you, under the arches of the Place Royale ?” 

“Six, with myself.” 

“ Six with yourself, dear M. de Beausire ; let me see if they 
are the men I think. In the first place, yourself?” 

Beausire uttered a sigh which indicated that he wished there 
was a possibility of doubt 


Œ DIPUS AND LOP 


15 » 

Then there was your friend Trocarty ? 

“ Then a royalist, named Marquée, ci-devant sergeant in the 
Royal French Guards, and now sous-lieutenant of a company of 
the centre ?” 

“ Yes, count. Marquée was there.” 

“ And M. de Favras ?” “ And M. de Favras.** 

“ Then the masked man ?” “ Then the masked man.” 

“ Can you give me any information about this masked man, 
M. de Beausire?” 

“ Well,” said Beausire, I think it was Monsieur ” 

“ Monsieur who ?” said Cagliostro, sharply. 

‘‘ Monsieur — Monsieur, the brother of the king.” 

“Ah ! dear M. de Beausire, the Marquis de Favras has a 
deep interest in creating the impression that, in all this affair, he 
has touched the prince’s head. That may be so ; but a man 
who cannot lie, cannot conspire. But that you and your 
friend Trocarty, two recruiting officers, used to measure men by 
the eye, by feet, inches, and lines, is very improbable. Monsieur 
is five feet three high, the masked man was five feet six.” 

“ True, count, so I thought : but who was he ?’' 

“ Pardieu, my dear M. de Beausire, will I not be prettily 
engaged in teaching you, when I expected to be taught by you ?” 

“ Then,” said Beausire, who gradually recovered his presence 
of mind, as he returned, little by little, to reality, “you know 
who this man is ?” 

“ Parbleu.” 

“ Is there any indiscretion in asking ?” “ His name ?” 

Beausire nodded that was what he wished. 

“ Do you know the play of Œdipus ?” 

“ Not well ; I have seen the play at the Comédie Française, 
but towards the end of the fourth act I sank to sleep.” 

“ I will, then, briefly tell you the story : 

“ I knew Œdipus ; it was foretold that he would be the mur- 
derer of his father and the husband of his mother. Now, 
believing Polybius his father, he left him and set out, without 
assigning any reason, for Phocis. As he set out, I advised him, 
instead of taking the high road from Dantes to Delphi, to take 
a mountain path I was acquainted with. He, however, was 
obstinate, and as I could not tell him why I gave him this advice, 
all exhortation was vain. From this obstinacy resulted exactly 
whit I expected. At the forks of the road, from Delphi to 
Thebes, he met a man followed by five slaves. The man was 


THE COUNTESS DE CHAR NY, 


152 

in a chariot, which crowded the whole road ; all difficulty would 
have been obviated had the man in the car consented to have 
turned a little to the right, and Œdipus to the left ; each, however, 
insisted on the centre of the road. I'he man in the chariot was 
choleric, and Œdipus not very patient. The five slaves rushed, 
one after the other, before their master and one after the other 
was slain. Œdipus passed over six dead bodies, one of which 
was his father.” 

“ The devil !” said M. de Beausire. 

“ He then went to Thebes ; now, on the road to Thebes was 
Mount Pincior, and in a yet more narrow road than that in which 
he had slain his father, a strange animal had a cavern. This 
animal had the wings of an eagle, the head and heart of a woman, 
the body and claws of a lion.” 

“ Oh, oh 1” said Beausire, “ are there any such monsters, in 
your opinion?” 

I cannot possibly affirm their existence, since, when I went 
to Thebes, a thousand years afterwards, and travelled the same 
road, during the time of Epaminondas, the Sphinx, at the time 
of Œdipus the Sphinx was alive ; one of its passions was to place 
itself by the roadside, proposing enigmas to the passing travel- 
lers, and devouring all who could not answer them. Now, as this 
lasted for more than three centuries, travellers became more and 
more rare, and the Sphinx’s teeth rather long. When it saw 
Œdipus, it placed itself in the centre of the road, and lifted 
up its paw, to bid the young man stop. ‘ Traveller,’ it said, 
I am the Sphinx.’ * Well, what then ?’ asked Œdipus. ‘ Well, 
destiny has sent me to earth, to propose an enigma to men — if 
they do not guess it, they are mine ; if they do, I am Death’s, 
and I must throw myself into the abyss where I have thrown 
the fragments of the bodies of those I have devoured.’ Œdipus 
looked over the precipice and saw the white bones. ‘ Well,’ said 
the young man, ‘ the enigma.’ ‘ It is this : What animal walks 
on four legs in the morning, on two at noon, and on three at 
night ?’ Œdipus thought for a moment with a smile of disdain, 
which could not but make the Sphinx uneasy. * If I guess it,’ 
said Œdipus, ‘will you precipitate yourself into the abyss?’ 
‘Yes.’ ‘ Well,’ said Œdipus, ‘ that animal is man.’ ” 

“ How so ? man !” interrupted Beausire, who became inte« 
rested in the conversation, as if it related to something 
contemporary. 

“ Yes, man ! who in his childhood, that is to say, in the 


ŒDIPUS AND LOT, 


IS3 

morning of life, crawls on his feet and hands, who in his prime, 
that is to say, at the noon of life, walks erect, and in his old age, 
that is to say, in the evening of life, uses a staff.” 

“Ah !” said Beausire, “that is true. Fool that the Sphinx 
was !” 

“ Yes, my dear M. de Beausire, so foolish, that it threw it- 
self into the cavern, without using its wings, and broke its head 
on the rocks. As for Œdipus, he pursued his journey, came to 
Thebes, found Jocasta a widow, married her, and thus fulfilled 
the oracle, that he would kill one parent and marry the other.” 

“But, count,” said De Beausire, “where is the analogy 
between the story of Œdipus and the mask ?” 

“ Good! you desired to know his name just now?” “Yes.” 

“ And I told you that I was about to propose an enigma. 
True, I am of better material than the Sphinx, and will not 
devour you if you do not answer. Attention, I am about to lift 
up my hand : ‘ What part of the court is the grandson of his 
father, the brother of his mother, and the uncle of his sisters ?’ ” 

“ Diable !” said Beausire, relapsing into a quandary, great a s 
was that of Œdipus. 

“ Think, sir : study it out,” said Cagliostro. 

“ Assist me a little, count ?” 

“ Willingly ; I asked you if you knew the story of Œdipus.” 

“You did me that honour.” 

“ Now we will pass to sacred history. You know what is 
said of Lot ” 

“And his daughters?” “ Exactly.” 

“Parbleu, I know. Wait, though, do you know what was 
said of Louis XV. and his daughter, Madame Adelaide ?” 

“ You know, my dear sir.” 

“Then the masked man was Count Louis ?” “Well.” 

“ It is true,” murmured Beausire, “ the grandson of his father, 
the brother of his mother, the uncle of his sisters, is Count Louis 
de Nar.” “Attention,” said Cagliostro. 

Beausire interrupted his monologue, and listened with all his 
ears. 

“Now we no longer doubt who the conspirators are, either 
masked or not. Let us proceed to the plot.” 

Beausire nodded, as if to say that he was ready. 

“The object is to convey the king away ? 

“That is it exactly. 


THE COUNTESS DE CH ARN Y, 


to4 

“To take him to Peronne?” “To Peronne.* 

“ What at present are the means ?” “ Pecuniary P'' 

“ Yes.” “Two millions.” 

“ Lent them by a Genoese banker. I know him. Have they 
none other ?” “ I do not know.” 

“ They have money enough, but they need men.” 

“ M. Lafayette has authorised the raising of a legion, to aid 
Brabant, which has revolted against the empire.” 

“Oh ! kind Lafayette, I see your hand clearly there.” Then 
aloud, “ So be it ; but not a legion, but an army is needed for 
such an enterprise.” 

“ There is an army.” “ Let us see what ?” 

“ Two hundred horse will be collected at Versailles, and 
on the appointed day will leave Versailles at eleven p. m. At 
two o’clock in the morning they will reach Paris in three 
columns.” “ Good.” 

“ The first will enter Paris at the gate of Chaillot, the second 
at the Barrière du Roule, the third at Grenelle. The latter 
will murder Lafayette ; the first M. Necker, and the other Bailly, 
the Maire of Paris.” “ Good,” said Cagliostro. 

“ The blow being struck, the guns will be spiked. They will 
meet at the Champs Elyseés, and a march will be made on the 
Tuileries, which are ours.” 

“What, yours ! and the National Guard ?” 

“ There the Brabançonne column will act, joined to four 
hundred Swiss, and three hundred people from the outside of 
Paris. Thanks to confederates in the palace, they will hurry to 
the king, and say, ‘ Sire, the Faubourg St. Antoine is in a state 
of insurrection. A carriage is ready harnessed. You must go.’ 
If the king consent, the thing will be right ; if he do not, he will 
be forcibly seized and taken to St. Denis.” 

“Good !” 

“ There are twenty thousand infantry. They will set out on 
the appointed day, at eleven at night, with twelve hundred 
cavalry ; the Brabançonne legion, the Swiss, the people from 
out of Paris, and ten or twenty thousand royalists, will escort 
the king to Peronne.” 

“ Better and better ; and what will be done at Peronne ?” 

“ At Peronne are expected twenty thousand men from the 
Flemish border, Picardy, Artois, Champagne, Burgundy, Lor- 
raine, Alsace and Cambresis. They are in treaty for twenty 
thousand Swiss, twelve thousand Germans, and twelve thousand 


ŒDIPUS AND LOT, 


IS5 

Sardinians, who, joined to the royal escort, will forna an effective 
force of one hundred and fifty thousand men.” 

“ A nice army.” 

“ With these one hundred and fifty thousand men, it is pur- 
posed to march on Paris, to intercept water communication 
above and below the city, and cut off all supplies. Paris will be 
starved out, and will capitulate. The National Assembly will 
be dissolved, and the king restored to the throne of his fathers.” 

“ Amen,” said Cagliostro. 

Arising, he said : “ My dear M. de Beausire, you have a 

most agreeable knack of conversation ; the case with you is like 
that of all great orators : when you have said all, there is nothing 
more to be said.” 

“ Yes, count, at the time.” 

“ Then, my dear M. de Beausire, when you need ten other 
louis, always on this condition, be it understood, come to my 
house at Bellevue.” 

“ At Bellevue ! and shall I ask for Count Cagliostro ?” 

“Cagliostro? No, they w'ould not know whom you mean; 
ask for Baron Zanoni. And now,” said Cagliostro, “ whither, 
M. de Beausire, do you go ?” 

“ Whither go you, count ?” 

“ In the direction you do not go.” 

“ I go to the Palais Royal, count.” 

“ And I go to the Bastile, M. de Beausire.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

IN WHICH GAMAIN SHOWS THAT HE IS REALLY MASTER 
OF MASTERS, MASTER OF ALL. 

The wish the king had expressed to Lafayette in the presence 
of the Count de Bouillé, to have his old master Gamain to assist 
him in an important piece of locksmithing, will be recollected. 
He had even added, and we think it not unimportant to give 
the detail, that an apprentice would not be without use in' the 
w’ork. The number three, in which the gods delight, was not 
displeasing to Lafayette, and he therefore gave orders to admit 
Master Gamain and his apprentice freely, and that whenever 
they came they should be taken to the king. 


56 


THE COUNTESS DE CH ARN Y, 


It will not, therefore, surprise our readers to see M. Gama in, 
accompanied by an apprentice, in their working dress, present 
themselves at the gates of the Tuileries. After their admission, 
to which no objection was made, they went around the royal 
apartments by the common corridor, and up the stairway to the 
door of the forge, where they left their names with the valet de 
chambre. 

Their names were Nicholas Claude Gamain and Louis 
Lecomte. 

Though the names were not at all aristocratic, as soon as he 
heard them Louis XVI. himself went to the door and said : 
“Come in !” 

“ Here ! here ! here !” said Gamain, appearing, not only with 
the familiarity of a fellow workman, but of a fellow apprentice. 

“ Ah ! Gamain, is it you ? lam glad to see you, for I thought 
that you had forgotten me.” 

“ And that is the reason why you took an apprentice ? You 
did well; you were right, for I was not here. Unfortunately,” 
said he, with a wry expression, “the apprentice is not a master.” 

“ What else could I do, poor Gamain?” said Louis XVI.; “they 
told me you wished to have nothing to do with me under any 
circumstances, for fear of compromising yourself.” 

“ Ma foi, sir, you might have learned at Versailles that it is not 
a safe thing to be one of your friends, for I saw, in the little inn 
of the Pont de Sèvres, the heads of two guardsmen, who grinned 
horribly, dressed by M. Leonard. They were killed because 
they chanced to be in your ante-chamber when you received 
the visits of your Parisian friends.” 

A cloud passed over the king s face, and the apprentice bowed 
his head. 

“ They say, though, that since your return to Paris things are 
much better, and that you now make the Parisians do all you 
wish. That is not wonderful, for the Parisians are such fools, 
and you and the queen have such winning ways about you.” 

Louis XVI. said nothing, but a faint flush passed over hi^ 
cheeks. 

“ Now,” said Gamain, “ let us look at this famous lock, for 
I promised my wife to return to-night.” 

I'he king gave Gamain a lock three-quarters done. 

Gamain pointed out a great many alterations, and the king 

“ But it will take a day’s hard work to effect all this, Gamain 





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CA MAIN SHOWS THAT HE IS A 


. ' IZ. ir/ 

“Ah, yes, to another, but two hours wù. enough for me ; 
only you must not annoy me with questions, and say ‘ Gamain 
this, and Gamain that leave me alone. The shop seems to 
have tools enough, and in two hours, yes, two hours, come back, 
and all will be complete,*’ said Gamain, with a smile. 

This was exactly what the king wished. The solitude of 
Gamain would enable him to talk alone with Louis. 

“ If you want anything, Gamain ?” 

“ If I do, I will call the valet de chambre, provided he be 
ordered to bring me what I wish.” 

“Volnay,” said the king, after examining the alterations 
Gamain had suggested, “remain here, I pray you ; Gamain, my 
old master, has come to correct a mistake in a lock I began. 
Give him all he wants, especially two or three Lotties of excellent 
Bordeaux.” 

“Will your majesty please to remember that I like Burgundy 
best, sire. Damn Bordeaux, it is like drinking warm water.” 

“ Ah, yes ; true. I forgot, we have often U inqvered together, 
my poor Gamain. Burgundy, you understand, Volnay.” 

“Ah, yes,” said Gamain, wetting his lips, “ I remember.” 

“And did it make the water come to your lips ?” 

“Do not talk to me about water; I do not know of what 
earthly use it is, except to temper metal with ; all ^^ho use it for 
any other purpose divert it from its true destination.” 

“ Be easy; as long as you are here you will not hear water 
mentioned, and lest by accident the word escape from our lips, 
we will leave you ; w'hen you have done, send for us. 1 he 
drawer for which this lock is intended ” 

“ Ah, that is the kind of work which suits you. Wish you joy.” 

“ So be it,” said the king. 

Bowing familiarly to Gamain, the king left with the apprentice, 
Louis Lecomte, or Le Comte Louis, whom the reader has 
had sufficient perspicacity to have recognised as the son of the 
Marquis de Bouillé. 

Louis XVI. did not go from the shop by the outer stairway, 
but by the private one, intended for him alone. T his led to his 
study. The table was covered by a vast map of France, which 
proved that the king had already studied the shortest and most 
feasible way to leave his kingdom. 

Not until at the foot of the staircase did Louis XVI. appear 
to recognize the young apprentice, who, with his hat in his hand 
and his jacket over his arm, followed him. He then looked 


153 


THE COUNTESS DE CIIARNY, 


carefully arourxi the room, and said : “ Now, my dear count, 
that we are alone, let me compliment you on your address, and 
thank you for your devotion. But we have no time to lose ; 
even the queen is ignorant of your business here ; no one has 
heard us, so tell me quickly what brings you.” 

“ Did not your majesty do my father the honour to send an 
officer to his garrison ?” 

“ Yes, the Count de Charny.” 

“ Yes, sire, that is the name ; he had a letter.** 

“Which meant nothing in words, and which was but an 
introduction to a verbal message.” 

“ This verbal message, sire, he delivered, and that its execution 
might be certain, at my father’s order, and with the hope of 
seeing your majesty, I set out for Paris.* 

“ Then you know all ?” 

“ I know that the king wishes, at a certain given moment, to 
be able to quit France.” 

“ And thinks the Marquis de Bouillé able to second him in 
his plan.” 

My father is proud and grateful for the honour you have' 
done him.” “ But to the point, what says he of the plan?” 

“ That it is hazardous, demands great precaution, but is not 
impossible.” 

“ In the first place,” said the king, “ that the co-operation of 
M. Bouillé may have such full effect as his loyalty and devotion 
promise, would it not be better that the governments of several 
provinces were united to his command at Metz, especially the 
government of Franche Comté?” 

“ So my father thinks, sire, and I am happy that your majesty 
has yourself first expressed the idea. The marquis feared your 
majesty would attribute it to personal ambition.” 

“ Go, go ! do I not know your father’s personal abnegation? 
Come, tell me, did he explain himself to you as to the course to 
be adopted ?” 

“ This is what my father proposes to your majesty.” 

“ Speak,” said the king, looking over the map of France, to 
follow the different routes the young count was about to 
propose. 

“ Sire, there are many points to which the king can retire.’* 

“ Certainly, but I prefer Montmédy, which is in the centre of 
your father’s command. Tell, the marquis that my choice is 
made, and that I prefer Montmêc’y.” 


CAM AIN snows THAT HE IS MASTER OF ALL, 159 

•* Has the king resolved on the attempt, or is it but a pro- 
ject ?” the young count dared to ask. 

“My dear Louis,” replied Louis XVI., “nothing is as yet 
determined on. If I see the queen and my children exposed to 
new dangers, like those of the night of the 5 th and 6th of 
October, I will decide ; tell your father, my dear count, when I 
shall once have made up my mind, it will be irrevocable.” 

“ Now, sire,” said the young count, “ if it were permitted 
to me to express an opinion in relation to the manner of the 
voyage, may I mention to your majesty my father’s advice ?” 

“Go on, go on.” 

“ He thinks that the dangers would be diminished by divid- 
ing them.” 

“ Explain.” 

“ Sire, your majesty should start with Madame Elizabeth and 

îkladame Royale, while the queen, with the dauphin so 

that ” 

“ It is useless, my dear Louis, to discuss this point. In a 
solemn moment we decided, the queen and I, not to separate. 
If your father washes to save us, he must save us all together, 
or not at all.” 

The count bow’cd. 

“Another thing, sire; there are two roads to Montmédy. I 
must ask your majesty which you wall take, in order that it may 
be examined by a competent engineer.” 

“ We have a competent engineer — M. de Charny, who is de- 
voted to us. The fewer persons we put in the secret, the better. 
In the count w^e have a servant intelligent and tried, and will 
make use of him. As I chose Montmédy, the two roads are 
marked out on this map.” 

“ There are three, sire,” said De Bouillé, respectfully. 

“ I know, that from Paris to Metz, which I left beyond Ver* 
dun, to take the Stenop road along the Meuse, from which 
Montmédy is but three leagues distant.” 

“There also is Rheims, I’lsle de Retter and de Stenay,” 
said the young count, anxious that the king should select 
that. 

“Ah, ah !” said the king, “it seems that is the route you 
prefer.” 

“ Sire, it is not my opinion, but my father’s, and is founded 
on the fact that the country it passes is poor and almost a 
desert ; consequently few^er precautions are ’•equired. He adds, 


iSo THE COUNTESS DE CHARNU. 

that the Roycal German, the best regiment in the service, the 
only one perhaps which has remained completely faithful, is 
stationed at Stenay, and can be your escort from Isle de Retter. 
Thus the danger of incurring suspicion by too great a move- 
ment of troops would be avoided.” 

“ Yes,” said the king, “ we would have to pass Rheims, where 
I was crowned, and where the first comer might recognize me. 
No, my dear count, on that point I am resolved.” 

The king pronounced these words in so firm a voice, that 
Count Louis did not even dare to make another suggestion. 

“ Them the king is resolved ?” 

“ On the road from Chalons to Verdun, there are troops in 
the little cities between Montmédy and Chalons. I do not 
see any inconvenience,” added the king, “ even if the first 
detachment met me in this last city.” 

“ Sire, when there it will be time enough to decide how far 
the regiments can venture. The king is, however, aware that 
there is not a post-station at Varennes.” 

“ I am glad, count, to see that you are so well informed ; it 
proves that you have seriously studied our plan Do not be 
afraid, though, for we will contrive a way to find horses, both 
above and below that town — our engineer will decide on the 
spot.” 

“ And now, sire, that nearly all is decided, will your majesty 
permit me to quote in my father’s name a few lines, from an 
Italian author, which seemed to him so appropriate to th® 
situation in which the king is, that he bade me commit them to 
memory, that I might repeat them to you ?’’ 

“ What are they, sir ?” 

“ These — ‘ Delay is always injurious, and there is no circum- 
stance entirely favourable in any undertaking ; he who waits an 
opportunity perfectly favourable will never undertake anything, 
or if he does, it will turn out badly.’ ” 

“ Yes, sir, the author is Machiavelli. I will pay attention, 
you may be sure, to the advice of the ambassador of the magni- 
ficent republic. But eh ! I hear steps on the stairway. It is 
Gamain. Let us go to meet him, that he may not see that we 
have not been busied with aught but the drawer.” 

As he spoke the king opened the door of the stairway. 

It was high time, for with the lock in his hand Gamain stood 
on the last step. 


A PROVIDENCE WATCHES OVER DRUNKEN MEN. i6i 


CHAPTER XVL 

A PROVIDENCE WATCHES OVER DRUNKEN MEN. 

On that day, about eight o’clock p. m., a man clad as a work- 
man, and keeping his hand carefully on his vest pocket, as if on 
that night it contained a sum of money larger than workmen 
usually carry, left the Tuileries by the turning bridge, and 
inclining to the left, went entirely down one of the long aisles of 
trees which towards the Seine prolong that portion of the 
Champs Elysées formerly called the marble post, or the stone 
post, and now called Cours-la-Reine. 

At the first cabaret on the road, the man seemed to undergo 
a violent mental contest, whence he emerged victorious. The 
res in lite was whether he would enter the cabaret or not. He 
passed on. 

The temptation w^as renewed at the second, and at this 
moment a man who followed him like a shadow, though unseen, 
might have fancied he was about to yield, so much did he 
deviate from the straight line and incline towards that temple 
of Bacchus. 

This time, also, temperance triumphed, and it is probable that 
if a third cabaret had not been met with, the shadow would have 
had to return, and thus break a vow he seemed to have made. 
The workman continued his route, not fasting, for he seemed 
already to have taken a decent quantity of liquor, but yet had 
sufficient self-control for his legs to bear him in a line sufficiently 
straight for all ordinary purposes. 

Unfortunately, however, there was not only a third, but a 
fourth, fifth, and twentieth cabaret. The result was that the 
temptation was too often renewed, and the force of resistance 
not being in harmony with the power of temptation, he gave 
way at the third test. 

True it is, that by a kind of transaction with himself, the work- 
man, who had so long and so fortunately combated the demon 
of wine, as he entered the cabaret, stood erect at the counter, 
and asked for but one chopin. 

The demon of wine, with which he had so long contended, 
seemed to be victoriously represented by the stranger who had 
followed him in the distance, taking care to remain unseen, but, 
however, never losing sight of his quarry. 


II 


i 62 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


It was, without doubt, to enjoy this particularly agreeable 
prospect that he sat on the parapet, just opposite the tap where 
the man drank his chopin, and set out just five minutes after, 
having drunk his chopin, the man crossed the door to resume 
his journey. 

Who, however, can say when the lips once damped by wine 
will be dried ? and who has not seen, as drunkards always do, 
that nothing excites the thirst so much as drinking? Scarcely 
had the ouvrier gone a hundred paces, than he felt such a thirst 
that he had to stop again, and on this occasion called, not 
for a chopin, but for a half-bottle. 

The shadow that followed him did not seem at all dissatisfied 
at the delay caused by this quenchless thirst, but stopped at the 
angle of the wall of the cabaret ; and though the man sat down 
at his ease and drank a whole quart to settle the half-bottle and 
chopin, the benevolent shadow exhibited no impatience, con- 
tented, when he came out, to follow him as he had done before. 

About a hundred paces further on he had a new temptation 
and a ruder test to submit to : the ouvrier made a third halt, 
and this time, as his thirst continued to increase, he again asked 
for a bottle. 

The argus had again to wait half an hour, a thing he did 
with the greatest patience. 

Certainly, these five minutes, this half hour, successively lost, 
awakened something of remorse in the heart of the drinker. 
He took the precaution, before he set out again, to provide 
himself with an uncorked bottle, as he evidently did not wish 
to halt, but to continue on his journey drinking. 

It was a prudent resolution, and one which did not delay him 
much, taking into consideration the curves and zig-zags which 
were the result of every approach of the bottle to his lips. 

By an adroitly combined curve, he passed the barrier of Passy 
without any trouble ; vessels carrying liquids, it is well known, 
not being liable to any octroi out of Paris. 

A hundred paces from the barrier our man had occasion to 
congratulate himself on his ingenious precaution, for from that 
place cabarets became rarer, until at last there were none. 

What was that to our philosopher ? Like the sage of old, he 
carried about with him, not only his fortune, but his joy. 

We say his joy, since, after getting half through his bottle, our 
traveller began to sing, and no one will deny but that song and 
laughter are the great means by which man exhibits joy 


A PROVIDEXCE IVATCHES OVER DRUNKEN MEN. 163 


The shadow appeared fully satisfied with the music, which it 
seemed to repeat in a low tone, and with an expression of 
pleasure which showed that it took great interest in it. B;!t, 
unfortunately, the joy was ephemeral and the song short. The 
joy lasted just as long as the wine aid ; and when at last the 
empty bottle was pressed again and again to no purpose, the 
song changed into growls, which, becoming more and more 
deep, ended in imprecations.. 

These imprecations were addressed to unknowm persecutors, 
of whom, as he staggered, our traveller complained. 

“ Base people,” said he, “ to give poisoned wine to an old 
friend and to a master-workman ! Pah ! let him but send to me 
to fix his locks, and I will tell him : ‘ Bon soir, your majesty ; let 
your majesty fix your own locks. Sire, you cannot make a lock 
as easily as you can a decree.' Catch me doing any such thing 
again ; I care nothing about your keys, springs, and tumblers, 
only catch me there again, that is all. The villain ! They 
certainly have poisoned me.” 

Having spoken these w’ords, he was overcome by the force of 
the poison, and fell headlong, three times, on the road, which 
fortunately was covered wdth a soft cushion of mud. 

Our friend, on the two first occasions, arose without assist- 
ance. The operation was difficult, but was accomplished safely. 
The third time, after desperate efforts, he w^as forced to confess 
that the effort was beyond his power, and with a sigh, not unlike 
a groan, he seemed determined for that night to sleep on our 
common mother, earth. 

At this point of discouragement and weakness, the shadow 
which had accompanied him from the Place Louis XV. with 
so much perseverance, and which had, in the distance, 
witnessed those abortive efforts to rise which ive .have sought 
to describe, approached him, went around him, and called a 
fiacre wffiich chanced to pass. 

“ My friend,” said he to the driver, ‘‘ my companion is ill ; take 
these six livres, and put the poor devil inside your carriage, and 
take him to the inn at the Pont de Sèvres. I will ride with 
you.” 

There was nothing strange in one of the two riding with the 
driver, as both seemed very common men. Therefore, with the 
touching confidence people of that class have in each other, the 
driver said, “ Six francs, where are they ?” 

“ Here they are, my friend,” said the other, who did not seem 

1 1 — 2 


THE COUNTESS DE CH ARN Y, 


164 

in the least annoyed, at the same time giving the coachman 
a crown. 

“ All right, sir,” said the Automedon, softened by a sight of 
the king’s effigy. 

“ Take up this poor devil, put him inside, shut the doors 
carefully, and try to make your two nags last until we reach 
the Pont de Sevres, and we will act then to you as you act to us.” 

“ Very well,” said the driver, “ that is the way to talk. Be 
easy, I know what is what. Get on the box and keep our pea- 
cocks from cutting up capers. Dame ! they already smell the 
stable, and are anxious to get into it.” 

Without making any remark, the generous stranger did as he 
was directed, and the driver, carefully as he could, lifted up the 
drunken man and placed him between the seats, shut the 
door, got on the box, whipped up the horses, which at the melan- 
choly gait hack horses acquire so easy passed the little hamlet 
of Pont de Jour, and in an hour reached the inn of the Pont de 
Sevres. 

In the interior of this inn, after ten minutes devoted to 
the unpacking of Gamain, whom the reader has doubtless 
recognised before now, we will find the worthy locksmith, mas- 
ter over masters, seated at the same table with the same 
armourer we described in the opening of this history. 

The host of the cabaret of the Pont de Sevres had gone to 
bed, and the least ray of light passed through the blinds, when 
the first knock of the philanthropist who had rescued Gamain 
sounded on the door. 

I'he blows were so long and frequent, that there was no pos- 
sibility for the inmates of the cabaret, sleepy as they were, to 
resist so violent an attack. 

Sleepy, and slumbering, and growling, the keeper of the house 
came to open the door himself, and in his own mind determined 
to give them a pretty scolding for so disturbing him, for, as 
he said, “ the game was not worth the candle.” 

It seemed, however, that the game was worth the candle, for at 
the first word spoken by the man who knocked so irreverently, 
the innkeeper took off his cap, and bowing in a most reverent, 
and in his costume most ridiculous manner, introduced Gamain 
and his escort into the little room where we previously have seen 
him, sipping his favourite vin de Burgogne. 

Both driver and horses had done as well as they could, the 
one using his whip and the others their legs, which the stranger 


A PRO VWENCE IVA TCP ES 0 VER DRUNKEN MEN. i6j 

rewarded with a twenty-four sous piece for drink, in addition to 
the six livres he had already given. 

Then, having seen Gamain firmly deposited in a chair, with his 
head on a table in front of him, he hastened to make the inn- 
keeper bring two bottles of wine and a pitcher of water, and 
opened the blinds for the purpose of purifying the mephitic air 
of the house. 

The host, after having himself brought two bottles of wine and 
a pitcher of water, the first promptly, but the latter after some 
delay, retired, and left his two guests together. 

The stranger, as we have seen, had taken care to renew the air ; 
then, before the window w^as closed, had placed a flacon beneath 
the dilated nostrils of the locksmith, who snored as men do in 
that state of drunkenness, and who, could they hear themselves, 
would certainly be cured of their mad love of wine. The sovereign 
wisdom of the Most High does not, however, permit drunkards 
to hear themselves. 

* The wretch — he has poisoned me — he has poisoned me.* 

The armourer was pleased to see that Gamain was still under 

the influence of the same idea, and placed the flacon again be- 
neath his nostrils, which, restoring some strength to the worthy 
son of Noah, perm.itted him to complete the last phrase, by 
adding to the words he had already pronounced two other 
words, which were the more horrible, as they signified a total 
abuse of confidence and w^ant of heart ; 

‘To poison a friend— a friend !’ 

‘ Fortunately,’ said the armourer, ‘ I was there with the anti- 
dote.* 

‘ Yes, indeed,’ murmured Gamain. 

‘ But as one dose is not enough for such a person,’ continued 
the stranger, ‘ take another.’ 

He poured into half a glass of water four or five drops of the 
fluid in the flacon, which was only a solution of ammonia. 

He then placed the glass close to Gamain’s lips. 

‘Ah !’ said he, ‘this is to be drunken with the mouth ; I like 
it better than with the nose.’ 

He swallowed the contents of the glass. Scarcely had he 
done so, however, than he opened his mouth wide, and sneezed 
violently twice. 

‘ Robber ! what have you given me ? Puh ! Puh !’ 

* I have given you a liquid which will save your life.' 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


1 66 

* Ah !’ said he, ‘ if it saves my life, you were right to give it 
me. But if you call it liquor, you are damnably mistaken.^ 

He sneezed again, opening his mouth and expanding his eyes, 
like a mute of old Greek tragedy. 

The stranger took advantage of this pantomime to shut, not 
the window, but the blinds. 

This was not without advantage, for Gamain began to open his 
eyes for the second or third time. During this movement, con- 
vulsive as it was, Gamain had looked around him, and with that 
sentiment of profound remembrance which drunkards have of 
the walls of a room, he recognised those which surrounded him. 

In fact, in the many trips he was obliged to make to Paris, it 
was seldom that Gamain did not stop at the Pont de Sèvres. This 
pause might almost be considered a necessity, the cabaret being 
half way. This recollection had a great effect. It restored the 
confidence of the locksmith, by proving to him that he was in 
the company of friends. 

‘ Ah, ha !’ said he, ‘ I am half way, it seems.* 

‘ Yes, thanks to me,’ said the armourer. 

‘ How, thanks to you ?’ said Gamain, looking from inanimate 
to living things, ‘ thanks to you ? who are you ?’ 

‘ My dear Gamain, that proves to me that you have a bad 
memory.’ 

* Wait a bit, wait a bit ; it seems to me that I have seen you. 
before. But where was it ? That is the thing.’ 

‘Where? look around you, and the objects may, perhaps, 
arouse some recollections. When is another thing. Think, or 
it may be necessary to administer to you another dose of the 
antidote, to enable you to tell me.’ 

‘ No, I thank you, I have had enough of your antidote, and 
since I am saved a little, I will be content with that. Where 
did I see you ? — where did I see you ? Why here.’ 

‘All right.’ 

‘ When did I see you ?— wait ; on the morning when I came 
from doing some work in Paris. It really seems I have luck 
with those enterprises.’ 

‘ Very well, and now what am I ?’ 

‘ What are you ? — a man who paid for my liquor. Conse- 
you are a good fellow. Give me your hand.’ 

‘ With especial pleasure, as between a master locksmith and a 
master armourer there is but one step.’ 

‘ Ah ! well 1 There it is. I remember now. Yes, it was 


A FRO VIDENCE WA TCHES 0 VER DRUNKEN MEN, 167 

on the 6th of October, on the day of the king’s return to Paris. 
We even talked of him on thnt day.’ 

‘ And I found your conversation very interesting, Master Ga* 
main ; on that account I am anxious to enjoy it again, and since 
memory has returned to you, if I am not indiscreet, tell me what 
you were doing about an hour ago, stretched at your length in 
the street, within twenty feet of a carriage, which would have cut 
you in two if I had not passed by. Have you any troubles that 
you wish .thus to commit suicide ?’ 

‘I commit suicide ? My God ! What was I doing theie in 
the middle of the road ? Are you sure I w^as there ?’ 

‘ Parbleu ! look at yourself.’ 

Gamain looked at his coat. ‘ Ah !’ said he, ‘ Madame Ga- ' 
main will scold not a little. She told me not to put on my new 
coat. “ Put on your old jacket, it is good enough for the Tuik* 
ries. ” 

‘ How, the Tuileries ?’ said the stranger ; ‘ had you come from 
the Tuileries w'hen I saw you ?’ 

Gamain scratched his head, as if to rake up his ideas, which 
were not yet in order. 

* Yes, I came from the Tuileries ; what of that, though ? 
Everybody knows I w’as the king’s master. All know I served 
M. Veto.’ 

‘ How, M. Veto ? Whom do you call M. Veto ?’ 

‘ Ah ! good : you know’ they give that name to the king. 
Where did you come from, anyhow ? From China ?’ 

Bah ! I attend to my business, and do not attend to politics.’ 

‘You are very lucky. I do busy myself in politics, or rather 
I am forced to do so.’ Gamain looked up to heaven and 
sighed. 

‘ Bah !’ said the stranger. ‘ Have you been called to Paris 
to do some work for the person of whom you. spoke when 
w’e first met ?’ 

‘Exactly. Only at that time I did not know w’hitherlwTS 
going, for my eyes were bandaged; but this t:lme I went with them 
opened.’ 

‘You had no trouble, then, in recognising the Tuileries?’ 

‘The Tuileries !’ said Gamain, echoing his w-ords, ‘ who told 
you I went to the Tuileries ?’ 

‘ You, just now. How do I know you came from the Tuileries? 
Why, you told me so yourself.’ 


I6S THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 

“ True,” said Gamain, speaking to himself ; “ how could he 
know, unless I told him myself?” 

Then, speaking to the stranger, he said : 

“ Perhaps I was wrong to tell you ; but, ma foi, you are not 
everybody. Well, since I told you so, I will not contradict it ; I 
dill not contradict it. I was at the Tuileries.” 

“ And,” said the stranger, “ you worked with the king, who 
gave you twenty-five louis.” 

“ Yes ; I have twenty-five louis now, in my pocket.” 

“ Have you got them still ?” 

Gamain put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a handful 
of gold, mingled with silver and some copper. 

“Wait a bit — five, six, seven — good, and I forgot all this. 
Twelve, thirteen, fourteen ; just twenty-five louis. This is a sum 
which, as times go, is not found in the road. Twenty-three, 
twenty-four, twenty-five. Ah !” continued he, breathing with 
more liberty ! “ thank God, all is right ! How did you know I 
had this money ?” 

“ My dear M. Gamain, I have already had the honour to telt 
you that I found you asleep across the road, about twenty feel 
from a carriage, which was j)assing. I took down one of the 
lanterns of this carriage, and by its light saw two or three louis 
on the ground. As they must have come from your pocket, I 
put them back again, and in doing so, felt some twenty more. 
The coachman then said, shaking his head, ‘ No, monsieur, I 
cannot take that man ; he is too rich for his dress. Twenty-five 
louis in a cotton-velvet jacket will make a man smell a gallows a 
mile off.’ ‘ How, think you he is a robber ?* It seems the 
word struck you. ‘ Robber ! robber ! I, a robber ?’ said you. 

* Certainly ; or how else would you have twenty-five louis in 
your pocket ?’ ‘ I have them, because my pupil, the King of 

France, has given them to me,’ said you. In fact, at these 
w'ords, I fancied that I knew you. I placed the lantern close to 
your face. ‘ Ah !’ said I, ‘ all is explained ; it is Gamain, the 
locksmith of Versailles. He has been at work with the king, 
who has given him twenty-five louis for the trouble. Come, I 
will answer for him.’ As soon as I said I would do so, the 
driver made no more difficulty. I then placed in your pocket 
the louis d’or which had escaped, seated you in the car- 
riage, and got on the seat and brought you here, where you 
have nothing to complain of e.xcept the desertion of your 
apprentice.” 


A PJ^O VIDENCE WA TCHES 0 VER DR UNKEN MEN. 1 69 

What, I spoke of an apprentice, and of his desertion ?” said 
Camain, more and more amazed. 

“ Now, only look ! he no longer remembers what he has 
said.” 

“ I ?” 

“How, did you not say so, just now? It was the fault of 
that fellow 1 do not just now remember his name.” 

“ Louis Lecomte ?” 

“ That is it. How, did you not just now say it was the fault 
of that fellow, Louis Lecomte, who promised to return with you 
to Versailles, and who, instead, merely burned you up with 
politeness.” 

“ Well, I might have said all this, but it yet is true.”' 

“Well, since it is true, why should you deny it? Do you 
know, my fine fellow, that it might be dangerous to talk in this 
way to another than myself?” 

“ Yes, but with you,” said Gamain. fawning on the count 

“ With me ? what does this mean ?” 

“ It means to say, with a friend.” 

“ Ah, yes ! you show great confidence to a friend. You say, 
‘ it is true,’ and then, ‘ it is not true.’ The meaning of it is, that 
the other day you told me a story.” 

“ What story ?” 

“ The story of the secret door you had been sent to fix at tne 
house of some great lord, even the address of whum you had 
forgotten.” 

“ Well, you may believe me if you please, but on this time I 
also had to do with a door.” 

“ At the king’s ?” 

“ At the king’s ; only, instead of the staircase, it was the doer 
of a bureau.” 

“ And you mean to say that the king, who is curious about 
locksmiths, sent for you to close a door for him. Bah !” 

“ Yet that is the truth. Poor man ! he thought he could do 
without me, but it was of no use.” 

“ He then sent for you, by some confidential valet ? By Huet, 
Darcy, or Weber ?” 

“Now you are exactly wrong. To assist him, he had em- 
ployed a young man who knew less than he did. So that one 
day that fellow came to Versailles and said : ‘ Look here 
Master Gamain ; the king and I wish you to make a lock. The 
damned thing will not turn.’ ‘ What do you wish me to do ?’ 


170 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


I replied. * Come and correct it,’ said he. Then I said, ‘ It itj 
not true ; you are not sent by the king, and you wish to got me 
into some scrape.’ He said, ‘Very well, the king has sent you 
these twenty-five louis to remove all suspicion.’ He gave them 
to me.” 

“ Then these are the twenty-five louis he gave you.” 

“ No, not these ; these are others. The first twenty-five were 
only on account.” 

‘‘ Peste ! Fifty louis for mending a toy ? There is something 
beneath all that, Master Gamain.” 

“ That is what I say. Besides, you see, the other.” 

“ What other ?” 

“Well, he looked to me like a pretender. I should have 
questioned him, and asked him details about his tour in 
France, etc.” 

“Yet you are not a man to be deceived, when an apprentice 
offers himself.” 

“ I do not say he was a deceiver. He managed the file and 
chisel well enough, and I have seen him cut a hot bar of iron 
by a single blow, and with a rat-tail file cut a hole, just as if he 
had a bit and brace. But you see, he was more theoretical 
than practical. He had no sooner finished his work than he 
washed his hands, which at once became white ; would the hands 
of a true locksmith, like myself, ever become white ?” 

Gamain put forth two hard callous hands, which really did 
seem likely to defy all the almond paste ever made. 

‘ But,” said the stranger, leading the locksmith back to the 
matter under consideration, “ what did you do when you saw the 
king ?” » 

“ At first it seemed as if we were expected, for we were taken 
to the forge ; there the king gave me a lock begun wrong, and 
which would not work. Few locksmiths, you see, are able to 
make a lock with three beards, and no king can. I looked at it, 
I saw the joint, and naid, ‘Just leave me alone for an hour, and 
in that time I will fix it.’ Then the king said, ‘Well, Gamain, 
as you please ; you are in your own shop ; here are your files, 
pincers ; work, my lad, work ; we will go and fix the bureau for 
which the lock is intended.’ He left with the apprentice.” 

“ By the great stairway ?” asked the count carelessly. 

“ No ; by the little secret stairway, which opens into the king’s 
study ; when I had finished, I said, ‘ The bureau is a humbug, 
and they are shut up concocting some plot.’ I sought to descend 


A PRO VIDENCE WA TCHES 0 VER DRUNKEN MEN, 171 

softly ; I said to myself, ‘ I will open the door of the library, 
when I will see what they are about.’ ” 

“ What were they about ?” 

“ Ah, they probably heard me ; you know I am no dancing 
master ; tread lightly as I could, the infernal stairway would 
creak. They heard me, and came to me, and just as I was 
about to put my hand on the door, ‘ crack,’ it opened.” 

“ Then you know nothing ?” 

“Wait a bit. ‘Ah, ha, Gamain,’ said the king, Ms it you?’ 
‘ Yes, I have done.’ ‘And so too have we,’ said he. ‘ Come, 
I now intend to give you another job.’ He pushed me through 
the library, but not so quickly that I did not see, on the table, a 
great map of France, for it had fleurs-de-lys at one of the 
corners.” 

“ You observed nothing particular on this map of France ?” 

“ Yes, three long rows of pins stuck in, each at some distance 
from the other, reaching towards the sides of the map. One 
might have fancied them soldiers advancing by three different 
routes to the frontier.” 

“ My dear Gamain, your perspicacity is so great that nothing 
escapes it. And you think, instead of attending to the doors of 
the drawers, the king and his companion were busied with the 
map ?” 

“ I am sure of it,” said Gamain. 

“ How so ?” 

“ It is simple enough : the pins had wax heads— some were 
black, others red. Well, the king held in his hand, though he 
paid no attention to it, and occasionally picked his teeth with it, 
a pin with red wax on its head.” 

“ Gamain,” said the armourer, “ if I ever discover any* new 
system cf locksmithing, I will not bring you into my room, nor 
will I suffer you even to pass through it. If I want you, I will 
bandage your eyes, as was done on the day you were taken to 
the great lord’s ; on that day, though, did you not perceive that 
the front entrance had ten steps, and that the house was on the 
Boulevard ?” 

“ Wait a moment,” said Gamain, enchanted with the eulogium 
heaped on him, “ you have not come to the end yet. There 
really was an armoire in question.” 

“ Ah, ha ! where ?” 

“ Ah, just guess ; inserted in the wall, my friend.’* 

“What wall ?” 


172 


THE COUNTESS DE CIIARNY, 


** The wall of the interior corridor, which leads from the king’s 
bed-chamber to the dauphin’s room.” 

“ Do you know that fact is, to me, peculiarly interesting ? 
Was that armoire open ?” 

“ Not a bit ; I looked round on all sides, and saw nothing, and 
said, ‘Well, where is that armoire?’ The king then looked around, 
and said, ‘ Gamain, I always had confidence in you, and therefore 
wished no one else to know my secret.’ As he spoke, while the 
apprentice held the light for us, for this corridor is dark, the king 
moved a panel of the wood-work, and I saw a round hole about 
two feet across ; as he saw my surprise, he said, ‘ See you that 
hole, my friend; I had it made to hide away money. This young 
man has assisted me during the three or four days he has been in 
the castle ; now I must put the lock on in such a manner that the 
panel will resume its place and hide it as it hides the hole. 
Have you any need of assistance ? this young man will assist you, 
as he assisted me. If not/ said he, ‘ I will employ him elsewhere.’ 

‘ Ah,’ said I, ‘ you know that when I am at work I never want 
anybody with me. There are four hours’ work here for a com- 
petent man, and as I am a master, all will be done in three. Go 
about your business, young man, a id do you go about yours, sire. 
If you have anything to conceal, come back in three hours, and all 
will be done.’ The king must have had something for the young 
man to do, for I never saw him again. After about three hours, 
the king came back, and said, ‘ Eh ! Gamain, how do we get on?’ 
‘ So, so, sire, it is done,’ and I showed him that the panel moved 
perfectly wtll — so well that it was a pleasure to hear it. There was 
not the least noise, and the lock worked like one of Vaucanson’s 
automata. ‘Come,’ said he, ‘Gamain, help me to count the money 
I place within there.’ Then I counted one million, and he another, 
after which there were twenty-five over, and he said to me : ‘There 
Gamain, are twenty-five louis.’ As they came very convenient to 
a poor man, who has five children, and not much out of the way 
when he had counted a million, I took them. What do you say 
now ?” ^ The stranger moved his lips. “The fact is, he is mean.” 

“ Wait, that is not all. I took the twenty-five louis and put 
them in my pocket. ‘Thanks, sire,’ said I, ‘but with all this, 
I have eaten nothing to day, and am dying of hunger and thirst.’ 
I had scarcely spoken, when the queen came in by a masked 
door, so suddenly, that all at once I found her in front of me. 
She had in her hand a salver, on which was a glass of wine and 
a biscuit. ‘ Gamain/ said she, ‘ you must be hungry and thirsty, 


A PRZ VIDENCE IVA TCIIES O VER DRUNKEN MEN, 1 73 


take this.’ ‘Ah,’ said I to the queen, ‘you need not have put 
yourself out for me, it was not worth while.’ Tell me vrhat you 
think of that? To give a glass of wine to a man who is 
thirsty, and a biscuit to one who is hungry ? What was the 
queen about ? Anybody might know that were I hungry and 
thirsty, one glass of wine, one biscuit — pah !” 

“ Then you refused it ?” 

“ It would have been better if I had. No, I drank it. As 
for the biscuit, I wrapped it up in a handkerchief, and said, 

‘ What is not good for the father, is good for the children I 
then thanked her majesty, and set out for Versailles, swearing 
they would never catch me at the Tuileries again.” 

“ Why do you say it would have been better for you to have 
refused the wine ?” 

“ Because they had put poison in it — scarcely had I passed 
the turning bridge, than I felt thirsty — and so thirsty ! It w'as 
just where the river is on one side, and the wine-merchant’s on 
the other. Then I saw the bad properties of the wine they had 
given me. The more I drank, the more I wanted to drink, and 
thus it was till I lost all consciousness. They may rest assured, 
if ever I am called upon to give testimony against them, I will 
say they gave me twenty-five louis for working four hours and 
counting a million, and then, fearing lest I should tell where 
they hid the money, poisoned me like a dog.”* 

“ And I, my dear Gamain,” said the armourer, rising, for he 
now knew what he wished, “ I will rely on your evidence, as it 
was I who gave you the antidote which, thank God, saved your 
life.” 

Then Gamain, taking the hands of the stranger between his 
own, said, “ Henceforth we are friends to the death.” 

Refusing, with almost Spartan sobriety, the glass of wine 
which had been three or four times offered him by the man to 
whom he had sworn eternal fidelity, Gamain, on whom the 
ammonia had produced the double effect of instantaneously 
sobering him, and of disgusting him for three or four days of 
wine, resumed the route to Versailles, which he reached at four 
or five in the morning, with the king’s louis and the queen’s 
biscuit in his pocket. 

Having remained in the cabaret, the false armourer took his 
tablets from his pocket — they were inlaid with gold — and 

* This was really the accusation made to the convention, by this un* 
grateful wretch, on tlie occasfion of the trial of the queen. 


174 


THE COUNTESS DE CH ARN Y. 


wrote î “ Behind the alcove of the king, the dark corridor 
leading to the dauphin’s room. Iron armoire. 

To ascertain if Louis Lecomte, a locksmith’s apprentice, 
be not Count Louis, son of the Marquis de Bouille, who came 
eleven days ago from Metz.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE MACHINE OF M. GUILLOTIN. 

Two davs after, thanks to the strange ramifications Cagliostro 
possessed in all classes of society, and even in the royal ser- 
vice, he ascertained that Count Louis, son of the Marquis de 
Bouillé had come on the 15th or i6th of November, had been 
discovered by his cousin Lafayette on the i8th, and on the 
same day introduced himself to the king. That he had offered 
himself to the locksmith as an apprentice on the 22nd, had 
remained three days with him, and on the fourth day had gone 
to the Tuileries and been introduced to the king without any 
difficulty ; that he had left the king two hours after Gamain, 
and having gone to the lodging of his friend, Achille du 
Chastillon, had immediately changed his dress, and on the 
same evening returned to Metz. 

On the other hand, on the day after the nocturnal conference 
in the cemetery of Saint Jean between Beausire and Cagliostro, 
the former hurried out of breath to Bellevue, the house of the 
bank.er Zanoni. As he came from the gaming-table at ,.jveii 
in the morning, after losing his last sou, in spite of the certain 
martingale of Law, Beausire found the house empty, and that 
Oliva and Toussaint had disappeared. 

He then remembered that Cagliostro had refused to leave 
with him, saying that he had something confidential to say to 
Oliva. I'his opened the door to suspicion. Cagliostro had 
carried Oliva off. Like a good dog, Beausire put his nose 
close on the track, and went to Bellevue, where he left his 
name, and was at once admitted to Baron Zanoni, or to Count 
Cagliostro, as the reader pleases to call him— if not the principal 
personage, at least the one on whom all the drama hinges. 

Being introduced into the saloon with which we are already 
acquainted, from having seen Doctor Gilbert, Cagliostro and 


THE MACHINE OF M, GUILLOTIN, 175 

the Marquis de Favras there, Beausire when he saw the count 
hesitated. The count appeared such a great lord that he dared 
not even demand his mistress. 

But as if he read the heart of hearts of the old soldier, 
Cagliostro said : “ Beausire, I have observed that you have two 
real passions ; gaming and Mademoiselle Oliva.” 

“ Ah ! count, you know what I came for !” 

“Yes, to ask Mademoiselle Oliva of me. She is in my 
house.” “ In your house 1” 

“ Yes, at my house in the Rue St. Claude, where she has her 
old rooms, and if you be prudent, and I am satisfied with you, 
and you bring me news which amuses me, some day, M. de 
Beausire, we will put twenty-five louis in your pocket to enable 
you to play the gentleman in the Palais Royal, and a good coat 
on your back to enable you to play the lover in the Rue St. 
Claude.” 

Beausire had a great desire to talk loudly, and to demand 
Mademoiselle Oliva, but Cagliostro said two words about 
that unfortunate affair of the Portuguese embassy, which 
always hung over his head like the sword of Damocles, and 
Beausire said nothing. 

Some doubt having been manifested by him as to whether 
Mademoiselle Oliva really was at the house in the Rue St. Claude, 
the count ordered his carriage, and returned with Beausire to 
the house on the Boulevard, where he introduced him into the 
sanctum sanctorum^ and displacing a picture, showed him, by 
a skilfully contrived opening. Mademoiselle Oliva dressed like 
a q’’'=^n and lolling in a chair, while she read one of the bad 
bookS^ which at the time were so common, and which, when 
she was fille de chambre of Madame de Taverney, she was so 
happy to get hold of M. Toussaint, her son, was dressed like 
a prince, with white hat, role Henry 1 V, v.nth plumes, and sky 
blue pantaloons, sustained by a tri-colouréd sash, fringed with 
gold and magnificently embroidered. 

Beausire felt his paternal and marital heart dilate. He 
promised all the count wished, and the count permitted him 
every day, as soon as he had brought him his news, and 
received his ten louis d’or, to enjoy the luxury of love in 
Oliva’s arms. 

All progressed according to the count’s wishes, and we may 
say almost according to Beausire’s, when towards the end of the 
month of December, at a strange hour for that season, that is 


176 


THE COUyTESS DE CHARNY. 


to say; six o’clock in the morning, Doctor Gilbert, who had 
already been three hours at work, heard three knocks on his 
door, and from their peculiar intonation recognized a brother 
mason. He opened — Count Cagliostro stood on the other 
side of the door. Gilbert never met this mysterious man 
without something of terror. “ Ah !” said he to the count, “ is 
it you ?” Then, making an effort over himself, and giving him 
his hand, he said : “ You are welcome whenever you come, or 
for whatever purpose.” 

“What brings me, dear Gilbert, is to enable you to be 
present ata philanthropical experiment, of which I have already 
spoken to you.” 

Gilbert sought to recollect, but in vain, and finally said, “ I 
do not remember.” 

“ Come though, dear Gilbert ; I do not disturb you for 
nothing. Besides, you will meet many acquaintances of yours. 
Go with me.” 

“ Dear count, I will go anywhere that you please to taLt: me. 
The place and persons are but secondary considerations.” 

“ Then come, for we have no time to lose.” 

Gilbert was dressed, and had only to lay aside his pen, and 
put on his hat and cloak. A carriage was waiting. They 
entered it. 

The carriage was driven rapidly away, there being not even 
an order given. The driver evidently knew whither he was 
going. 

When he got out of the carriage, Gilbert saw that he was in 
the court of a prison, and at once recognized the Bicêtre. 

It was nearly a quarter after six ; the worst hour o^ the 
twenty-four, for even the most vigorous constitutions then suffer 
from cold. 

A small misty rain fell diagonal and stained the grey walls. 
In the middle of the court, five or six carpenters under the 
direction of a master workman, and a little man clad in black, 
who seemed to direct everybody, put up a machine of a strange 
and unknown form. 

Gilbert shuddered; he had recognized Doctor Guillotin, 
whom he had met at Marat’s. The machine was the one, a 
model of which he had seen in the cellar of the editor of 
V Ami du Peuple. 

The little man recognized Cagliostro and Gilbert. 

“ Good baron,” said he, “ it is kind in you to come first and 


THE MACHINE OF M. GUILLOTIN. 


177 


to 'bring the doctor. You remember I invited you at Marat's to 
come and see the experiment. I forgot, however, to ask you 
for your address. You will see something curious — the most 
philanthropic machine ever invented.” 

All at once, turning to the machine, which to him was a 
perfect hobby, he said : “Eh ! Guidon, what are you about? 
You are putting it hind part before.” 

Rushing up the ladder, which two men had placed at one of 
the sides, he stood for a moment on the platform, when in a 
few moments he gave directions for the correction of an error 
which the workmen had committed, they being as yet ignorant 
of the secrets of this novel machine. 

“ There !” said Doctor Guillotin, seeing with satisfaction that 
under his direction all went right, “ things go straight. It is 
now only necessary to put the knife in the groove.” 

“Guidon, Guidon,” said he, with an expression of terror, 
“ why is not the groove faced with copper ?” 

“Doctor, I thought well-seasoned oak quite as good as 
copper,” said the carpenter. 

“Ah, that is it!” said the doctor. “Petty economy! — • 
economy ! when the progress and good of humanity is con- 
cerned ! Guidon, if the experiment fails to-day, I hold you 
responsible. Gentlemen,” said he to Cagliostro and Gilbert, 
“ I call you to witness, that I wished the grooves for the knife 
to be faced with copper ; therefore, if it stick or not slide easily, 
it is not my fault, and I wash my hands of it” 

Notwithstanding this difficulty, however, the machine was 
erected, and certainly had a kind of homicidal air which de- 
lighted its inventor, but which horrified Doctor Gilbert 

d his is the form of the machine : 

A platform reached by a simple staircase. It was fifteen feet 
square, and on two of the parallel sides of this platform, ten or 
twelve feet high, arose two uprights. In them was the famous 
groove, the copper facing of which M. Guidon had sought to 
save, and which had evoked the lamentations of the philan- 
thropic Guillotin. Down these grooves slid, by means of a 
spring, which, when opened, suffered it to fall freely from its own 
weight, and much more fastened to it, a kind of crescent-shaped 
knife. A little opening was made between two beams, through 
which a man’s head could be passed, and which was contrived to 
seize the head as if it were a collar. A frame-work, long as the 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY» 


178 

Stature of an ordinary man, moved up and down on a hinge, 
and when let fall, was exactly level with the opening. 

Al’ this, it will be seen, was very ingenious. 

While the carpenters. Master Guidon, and the doctor were 
finishing their work, while Cagliostro and Gilbert were discus- 
sing the novelty of the instrument, the invention of which by 
Doctor Guillotin the count disputed, by showing much that 
was analogous in the Italian 7 nannaya^ and the doloire of Tou- 
louse, with which the Marshal Montmorenci was executed, new 
spectators began to come, called together, doubtless, by a desire 
to witness the experiment, and filled the court-yard. 

As the rain continued to fall, not so intensely, perhaps, but 
more steadily, Doctor Guillotin, who doubtless feared lest “ bad 
weather ” should deprive him of some of his spectators, hurried 
to the most important group, which was composed of Gilbert, 
Cagliostro, Doctor Louis, and the architect Giraud, and like a 
manager aware of the impatience of the public, said : “ Gentle- 
men, we await only one person — Doctor Cabanis; when he 
comes we will begin.” 

He had scarcely finished speaking, when a carriage entered the 
yard, and a man of thirty-eight or forty years, with an open face 
and intelligent expression of features and eye, dismounted. It 
was Doctor Cabanis, the person they had waited for. He 
bowed affably to all, as a philosophic physician should do, gave 
Guillotin his hand, who from his platform exclaimed, “ Welcome 
doctor, we waited for no one but you.” He then joined the 
group in which Gilbert and Cagliostro were. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Guillotin, “ all being here, we will begin.” 

At a motion of his hand a door was opened, and two men, 
clad in a kind of grey uniform, were seen to leave it, bearing on 
their shoulders a sack, in which the outline of a human body 
was vaguely seen. 

Behind the glass of the windows the pale faces of the criminals 
were seen, looking with an expression of terror, though un- 
invited, at the terrible spectacle, the object and reason of which 
they could not understand. 

On the evening of the same day, that is to say, on the 24th 
of December, Christmas eve, there was a reception at Flora’s 
Pavilion. 

The queen did not wish to receive company herself, so the 
Princess de Lamballe received for her, and was doing the 
honours of the circle when the queen arrived. 


THE MACHINE OF M. GU2LL0TIN 


«79 


111 the course of the morning the young Baron Isidor de 
Charny had returned from Turin, and immediately after his 
arrival he had been admitted to the king, and then at once had 
an audience of the queen. 

He had been received with great courtesy by both ; but two 
reasons rendered this courtesy on the part of the queen remark- 
able. 

In the first place, Isidor was the brother of Charny, and since 
Charny was absent, the queen experienced some pleasure in 
seeing his brother. 

And then Isidor brought despatches from M. le Comte 
d’Artois and M. le Prince ds Condé, which were quite in accord- 
ance with her own wishes. 

The princes recommended the project of M. de Favras to the 
queen, and begged her to profit by the devotion of this generous 
gentlaman to fly and rejoin them at Turin. 

He was further charged to express to M. de Favras all the 
sympathy which they felt for his project, as well as the wishes 
they entertained for its success. 

The queen kept Isidor more than an hour with her, invited 
him to join the evening circle of Madame de Lamballe, and 
would not even then have allowed him to go, if he had not him- 
self asked leave, in order to acquit himself of his commission to 
M. de Favras. 

The marquis had been forewarned of everything direct from 
Turin, and knew on whose behalf Isidor came. 

The message which the queen had entrusted to the young 
man completed the joy of the conspirator. Everything, in fact, 
seconded his hopes ; the plot was getting on wonderfully. 

One thing only made the marquis uneasy. This was the 
silence of the king and queen on his account. This silence the 
queen had attempted to break through the intervention of Isidor, 
and however vague might be the expressions which Isidor 
brought with him from the queen for M. and Madame de 
Favras, they were of great importance, since they came from 
royal lips. 

At nine in the evening, the baron went to Madame de Lam- 
balle’s. 

He had never been presented to that princess. She did not 
know him ; but, forewarned by the queen in the course of the 
day, when his name was announced, the princess rose and wel- 

12 2 


iSo THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 

coined him with a charming grace, and took him at once into 
her own little circle. 

Neither the king nor the queen had yet arrived. Monsieur, who 
seemed sufficiently uneasy, was talking in a corner wdth two gen- 
tlemen of the most intimate of his acquaintance, M. de la Châtre 
and M. de Avary. Count Louis de Narbonne went from group 
to group with the ease of a man who feels himself to be one of 
the family. 

When the ushers had announced the king and queen, all con- 
versation and bursts of laughter at once gave place to a respect- 
ful silence. Madame de Lamballe and Madame Elizabeth 
joined the queen. 

Monsieur walked straight up to the king to pay his respects, 
and, bowing to his majesty, said : “ Brother, cannot you manage 
to get up a private game of whist, composed of yourself, the 
queen, me, and some one of your intimate friends, so that, 
under the appearance of play, we may be able to enjoy some 
private conversation ?” 

“ W illingly, brother,” replied the king ; ‘‘ go and arrange the 
matter with the queen.” 

Monsieur approached Marie Antoinette, to whom Charny was 
tendering his respects, and saying quite low, “ Madame, I have 
seen M. de Favras, and I have a communication of the 
utmost importance to make to your majesty.” 

“ My dear sister,” said Monsieur, “ the king wishes us to make 
up a parly of four for wffiist ; we challenge you, and beg you to 
choose your partner yourself.” 

“ Very well,” said the queen, who herself doubted that this 
game of whist was but a pretext, “ my choice is made. M. le 
Baron de Charny, you shall join our game, and while we are 
playing you shall tell us the news you have brought with you 
from Turin.” 

“ Ah ! you have just come from Turin, baron ?” said Mon- 
sieur. 

“Yes, monseigneur; and in returning from Turin I passed 
through the Place Royale, where I saw a man who is entirely 
devoted to the king, the queen, and to your royal highness.” 

Monsieur coloured, coughed, and passed on. He was a man 
of considerable circumspection. 

He beckoned to M. de la Châtre, who appi’oached him, and 
receiving his orders in a low voice, left at once. During this 


THE MACHINE OF M. GUILLOTIN, i8i 

time the king addressed and received the ladies and gentlemen 
who still continued to visit the Tuileries. 

The queen went and took him by the arm to lead him to the 
whist table. They played two or three hands, only speaking 
when necessary. 

But after playing some time, and after observing that respect 
kept the crowd from the royal table, “ Brother,” hazarded the 
queen to Monsieur, “ the baion has told you that he has only 
just arrived from Turin ?” 

“ Yes,” said Monsieur ; “ he said something about it.” 

“ He has told you, has he not, that M. le Comte d’Artois 
and M. le Prince de Condé advise us strongly to go and join 
them ?” 

The king seemed impatient 

“ Brother,” whispered Madame Elizabeth, with the sweetness 
of an angel, “do listen, I beg.” 

“ And you, too, sister ?” said the king. 

“ I more than anybody, my dea# Louis ; for I love you, and 
am more uneasy than anyone else.” 

“ I was about to add,” hazarded Isidor, “ that I passed 
through the Place Royale, and that I stopped nearly an hour at 
No. 21.” 

“ At No. 21 ?” said the king ; “ what is there there ?’* 

“At No. 21,” replied Isidor, “ there lives a gentleman entirely 
devoted to your majesty, ready, as we are, to die for you, but 
who, more active than all of us put together, has managed a 
project for your safety.” 

“ What is it, monsieur ?” questioned the king, raising his 
head. 

“ If I could believe that I am displeasing the king by repeat- 
ing to his majesty what I know of this matter, I would at once 
be silent.” 

“ No, no ! monsieur !” said the queen quickly, “ speak ; 
sufficient people form projects against us : it is well that we 
should know those they make for our advantage. M. le Baron, 
tell us what they call this gentleman.” 

“ M. le Marquis de Favras, madame.” 

“Ah !” said the queen, “we know him ; and you have faith 
in his devotion, M. le Baron ?” 

“ Of his devotion ? Yes, madame \ I not only believe in it, but 
I am sure of it.” 


tSz THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 

“ Take care, monsieur,” obseived the king ; “ you promise 
much.” 

“ Heart judges heart, sire. I answer for the devotion of M. 
de Favras ; as for the value of his project, and the chance of its 
succeeding, that is another thing. I am too young, and whilst 
he is working for the safety of the king and queen, I am too 
prudent, to dare to express my own opinions upon the matter.” 

“ And this project. What may it be ?” said the queen. 

“ Madame, it is ready for execution ; and if it pleases the 
king to say a word or make a sign this evening, to-morrow at the 
same hour he shall be at Peronne.” 

The king was silent. 

“ Sire,” remarked the queen, addressing her husband, “ did 
you hear what the baron said ?” 

Certainly,” said the king, “ I heard ” 

“ Well, brother,” asked Monsieur, “ is not what the baron 
proposes very tempting ?” 

The king turned very quickly toward Monsieur, and fixing his 
look firmly on his countenance, said : “And if I go, will you go 
with me ?” 

Monsieur changed colour : his lips trembled, agitated by an 
emotion which he could not master. 

I ?” said he. 

“ Yes ! you, my brother,” said Louis XVI., “ you who wish 
me to quit Paris, you, I ask, if I go, will you go with me?” 

“ But,” lisped Monsieur, “ I am not prepared, not having 
been forewarned ; nothing is consequently ready.” 

“ What ! you were never forewarned ?” said the king ; “ and 
it is you who have furnished the money necessary to M. de 
Favras ! None of your preparations are made, and yet you 
have known, from hour to hour, how the conspiracy got on !” 

“ The conspiracy !” repeated Monsieur, looking very pale. 

“ Without doubt, the conspiracy ; for it is a conspiracy, a 
conspiracy so real, that if it is discovered, M. de Favras will be 
imprisoned, conducted to the Châtelet, and condemned to death ! 
— at least, unless, by means of money and promises, you manage 
to save him, as we contrived to save M. de Bézenval.” 

“ But if the king saved Bézenval, surely he will also rescue 
M. de Favras.” 

“No I because what I have done for one I may not be able 
to do for another. M. de -Bézenval was my man, just as M. de 


THE MACHINE OF M. GUILLOTIN. 183 

Favras is yours. Let each one save his own, and then we shall 
each do our duty.” 

And as he uttered these words, the king rose. 

The queen seized the skirt of his coat. 

“ Sire,” said she, “ whether you accept or refuse, you must 
send an answer to M. de Favras.” 

“ I must ?” 

“Yes ; what reply shall the Baron de Charny make in the 
name of the king ?” 

“ He will answer,’* said Louis XVI., as he loosened his dress 
from the hands of the queen — “ he will answer that the king 
cannot permit himself to be carried off.” 

And he turned and left them. 

“ What he wished to say,” continued Monsieur, “ is, that if 
the Marquis de Favras carries the king off without any per* 
mission on his part, he will be heartily welcome, provided 
always the affair succeeds ; because if it does not succeed he 
will seem a fool, and in politics fools deserve double punish- 
ment.” 

“ M. le Baron,” said the queen, “ run to M. de Favras this 
very evening, without losing an instant, and tell him the very 
words of the king : ‘ the king cannot consent that they carry 
him off.’ It is for them to understand them, or for you to 
explain them. Go !” 

The baron, who rightly regarded the answer of the king and 
the recommendation of the queen as a double acquiescence, 
seized his hat, and jumping into a carriage, ordered the driver 
to go to Place Royale, No. 21. 

When the king arose from the whist table, he went toward a 
group of young men, whose joyous laughter had excited his 
attention before he entered the saloon. They were silent at his 
approach. 

“Ah, gentlemen,” said he, “ is the king so unfortunate as to 
bring sadness with him wherever he goes ?” 

“ Sire !” murmured the young men. 

“ You were very lively, and laughing gaily, when the queen 
and I entered just now.” 

Then, shaking his head, “Unhappy are the kings,” said he, 
“ before whom others will not laugh.” 

“Sire !” said M. de Lameth, “the respect ” 

“My dear Charles,” said the king, “when you leave your 
prison, on Sundays and Thursdays, and I make you come for 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


amusement to Versailles, does my being there ever prevent you 
from laughing? I have just now said, ‘ Unhappy are the kings 
before whom they all dare not laugh !’ I now say, ‘ Happy in- 
deed are the kings before whom all do laugh !’ ” 

“Sire,” said M. le Castries, “perhaps the subject which 
excites our laughter might not seem in any way comical to you.* 

“ Of what are you talking then, gentlemen ?” 

“ Sire, it was àpropos to the National Assembly.” 

“ Oh ! Ah ! gentlemen, there were good reasons to become 
grave, then, on seeing me. I really cannot allow any one in my 
house to laugh at the National Assembly. It is true,” added 
the king, though he did not mean what he said, ‘‘ I am not at 
home, but at the place of the Princess de Lamballe, so that 
whether you laugh any more or not at the Assembly, there can 
possibly be no harm in your telling me what it really was that 
made you laugh so loudly.” 

“ Does the king know what they have been discussing at the 
Assembly throughout the day’s sitting ?” 

“ Yes ! and I have been very much interested. Has there not 
been a discussion about a new machine for executing criminals, 
proposed by M. Guillotin and offered to the nation ?” 

“ Yes 1” said Suleau. 

“ Oh ! oh ! M. Suleau, and you jest with M. Guillotin^ 
with a philosopher, a philanthropist ! It’s all very well, but you 
forget I am a philanthropist myself.” 

“ But, sire, there are two sorts of philanthropists. There is, 
for example, a philanthropist at the head of the French nation 
— a philanthropist who has abolished the question — him we 
respect, him we vener*ate ; we do more — we love him, sire.” 

All the young men bowed at once. 

“But,” continued Suleau, “there are others, who, being 
already physicians — who, having in their hands a thousand 
means, both good, bad, and indifferent, to put the sick out of 
this world easily — endeavour to discover a means equally as 
satisfactory to them to carry off those in good health too — and, 
by my word ! I beg your majesty will abandon them to me.” 

“ And what will you do with them, M. Suleau ? Not behead 
them without paint” asked the l^ing, alluding to the declaration 
of M. Guillotin ; “ or shall they take their departure feeling an 
agreeable freshness about their necks, eh ?” 

“ Sire, it is just what I wish them, but it is not what I will 
promise them,” replied Suleau. 


THE MACHINE OF M. GUILLOTIN, 185 

“ What !” said the king, “ is it that you wish them ?” 

“ Yes, sire ; I like the people who invent this kind of machine 
to try them. I do not complain much of Master Aubriot 
trying the walls of the Bastile, nor Sir Enguerrand de Marigny 
trying the gibbet at Montfaucon. Unhappily, I have not the 
honour of being king — unhappily, I have not the honour of 
being a judge ; it is probable, then, I shall be obliged to keep 
myself opposed to this very respectable doctor, and what I have 
promised him, I have already commenced to carry out.” 

“ And what have you promised him ?” asked the king. 

“ It has come into my head, sire, that this great benefactor 
of humanity ought to be one of the first to experience its ad- 
vantages. So, to-morrow morning, in the ‘ Actes des Apôtres,^ 
which we shall print in the course of the night, the baptism 
shall take place. It is only that the daughter of M. de 
Guillotin, recognized this very day in the National Assembly by 
her father, should be known by his name, and called Made- 
moiselle Guillotine.” 

“ I believe an experiment has already been made, this very 
morning, in fact ; were any of you there ? The experiment was 
at Bicêtre. 

“ No ! sire ! no, no, no !” said a dozen of them, all at once. 

‘‘ I was there,” said a grave voice. 

The king turned and recognised Gilbert, who had entered 
during the discussion, and who was the only one who could 
answer the king. 

“Ah ! you were there, doctor, were you ?” said the king, 
turning towards him. 

“Yes, sire.” 

“ And how do you think it succeeded ?” asked his majesty. 

“ Perfectly on the two first, sire ; but although the vertebræ 
of the third were cut, they were obliged to finish the cutting off 
of the head with a knife.” 

The young men listened with open mouths and open eyes. 

“ How, sire,” said Charles Lameth, speaking evidently fcr the 
rest as well as for himself, “ have they executed three men this 
morning ?” 

“ Yes, gentlemen,” said the king, “ only the three men were 
three dead bodies furnished by the Hôtel-Dieu. And your 
opinion, Gilbert ?” 

“Upon w'hat, sire?” “On the instrument.” 

“Sire, it is evidently an improvement upon all machines in- 


i85 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARHY. 


vented for the purpose of deprivin-g our fellow creatures of life; 
but the accident which happened to the third body proves that 
this machine requires perfecting.” 

“And how does it act?” asked the king, in whom the genius 
of mechanism began to arise. 

Gilbert then attempted to give an explanation ; but as the 
king could not catch an exact idea of the instrument from the 
description ot the doctor, he said : 

“ Come, come, doctor, here is a table, pen, ink, and paper. 
You draw, I think 

“Yes, sire.” 

“ Well, then, you shall make me a sketch ; I shall under- 
stand it better.” 

And as the young men, restrained by respect, did not like to 
seek to mate the king, 

“ Come, come, gentlemen,” said Louis XVI., “ questions like 
this interest the whole of humanity.” 

“ And who knows,” said Suleau, half-aloud, “ but one of us 
is destined to have the honour of marrying Mademoiselle 
Guillotine ? Come, gentlemen, let us be made acquainted with 
our bride.” 

And all of them, following Gilbert and the king, collectea 
round the table, at which Gilbert seated himself, in order to 
more conveniently make his sketch, at the invitation of the king. 

Gilbert commenced a sketch of the machine, while Louis XVI. 
traced each line with great attention 

Nothing was wanting, neither the platform nor the steps which 
conducted to it, nor the little window, nor anything else. 

He had nearly finished the last details, when the king inter- 
rupted him. 

“ Parbleu !” said he, “ there is nothing astonishing in its 
failure, especially at the third experiment.” 

“ How so, sire ?” asked Gilbert. 

“ That has the form of a hatchet,” said Louis XVI. “ It is 
not necessary to know much of mechanics to be able to tell 
that the shape of anything intended to cut when falling from a 
height ought to approach to that of a crescent.” 

“ What form would your majesty then give the knife ?” 

“ A very simple one, that of a triangle.” 

Gilbert tried to alter the design. 

“No! no! not so,” said the king, “just lend me your 
pencil.” 


THE MACHINE OF M. GUILLOTIN 


i87 


" Here is the pencil, sire,” said Gilbert. 

Wait, wait,” said Louis XVI., carried away by his love for 
mechanics ; “ look — thus and thus — and thus — and I will 
undertake that you shall cut off some fivc-and-twenty heads, 
one after another, without the edge twisting at all.” 

He had scarcely said these words, when a piercing cry, one 
of terror, as much as grief, was uttered just behind him. 

He turned quickly, and saw the queen fall fainting into 
Gilbert’s arms. 

Urged, like the rest, by curiosity, she had approached the table, 
and leaning on the chair of the king, she had, looking over his 
shoulder at the very time he was engaged in correcting its details, 
recognized the machine that Cagliostro had made her look at 
twenty years before in the Château de Taverney Maison-Rouge. 

At this sight, she had only strength to utter the cry, and life 
seemingly had abandoned her, as if the fatal machine itself had 
operated on her ; she had, in fact, fallen completely insensible; 
into Gilbert’s arms. 

One can easily understand that after such a circumstance the 
evening was soon brought to a close. 

Her majesty had at once been taken to the bedroom of the 
princess and laid upon a bed ; and the princess, who with that 
peculiar intuition belonging to females guessed there was some 
mystery, watched with the king, until, thanks to the skill of 
Doctor Gilbert, the queen recovered her senses. 

But it was evident that life was going to awake before reason ; 
for some moments she looked about the room with that vague 
and indifferent look with which people regard everything, when 
they do not know where they are and what has happened. But 
soon a slight trembling ran through her body ; she uttered a short 
shrill cry, and covered her eyes with her hands, as if to shut out 
some painful sight. 

She was coming round — the crisis w'as passed ! Gilbert was 
about to depart, when the queen, as if she had already under- 
stood he was going, stretched out her hand, and in a nervous 
voice, accompanied by a gesture as well, “ Remain !” said she. 

Gilbert stopped, quite astonished, for he was not unaware of 
how little sympathetic feeling the queen entertained for him. 

“ I am at the orders of the queen,” said he, “ but I believe it 
will be the best to calm the excited feelings of the people in the 
saloons, and if your majesty will permit ” 

“ Thérèse,” said the queen, addressing herself to the Princess 


i88 


THE COUNTESS DE CIIARNY. 


de Lamballe ; “ go and announce to the king that I am rapidily 
recovering, and say that I wish to talk to Doctor Gilbert.” 

The princess obeyed, with that sweet passiveness which was 
the characteristic of her temper, and even of her physiognomy. 

The queen followed her with her eyes, and waited anxiously 
while she finished her commission. Then, free to talk with 
Doctor Gilbert, she turned round, and fixing her eyes upon him, 
said : 

“ Doctor, what do you think caused this to happen ?” 

“ Madame,” said Gilbert, “ I am a man of science ; have the 
goodness to put the question in a more precise form.” 

“ I ask you, sir,” said the queen, “ whether the fainting fit I 
have experienced has been caused by one of those nervous crises 
' to which we poor women, through feebleness of our constitutions, 
are particularly liable, or if you suspect this accident has been 
brought on by any cause more serious ?” 

“ I shall answer to your majesty that the daughter of Maria 
Theresa, the woman whom I saw so calm and courageous during 
the night of the 5th and 6th of October, is not an ordinary 
woman, and consequently is not capable of being moved by what 
ordinarily affects a woman.” 

“ Yoii are right, doctor. Do you believe in presentiments?” 

“ Science herself sets aside all those phenomena which have a 
tendency to change the common course of things.” 

“ I ought to have said, Do you believe in predictions ?” 

“ I believe that Providence has concealed the future from us 
with an impenetrable veil. Some, by severely studying the past, 
are able to lift the corner and catch some idea of the future ; 
but these instances are very rare, and since religion has abolished 
fatality, since philosophy has put limits to faith, prophets have 

lost fully three quarters of their mystical powers. And yet ” 

added Gilbert. 

“ And yet ?” replied the queen, looking thoughtful. 

“And yet, madame,” continued he, as if he were making an 
effort over himself, to avoid coming in contact with questions 
which he considered to lie within the region of doubt, — “ and 
yet, madame, there is a man ” 

“ A man ?” said the queen, who followed Gilbert’s words with 
great interest. 

“ He is a man who has often confounded all my arguments by 
most unaccountable deeds.” 

“ And this man is ?” 


THE M ACHEVE OF M, CUILLOTIN. 


189 


I dare not name him before your majesty.” 

“'i'his man is your master, is he not, Gilbert? the man all- 
powerful ! the immortal, divine Cagliostro !” 

“ Madame, my only true master is Nature ; Cagliostro is only 
my saviour. Pierced by a ball which had traversed the whole 
length of my breast, and which, after having studied medicine 
twenty years, I considered incurable, thanks to a salve of 
whose composition I am still ignorant, he cured me in the cour.se 
of a few days — hence my gratitude j I had almost said my 
admiration.” 

“ And this man has predicted to you things that have come to 
pass ?” 

“ Strange, incredible things ! Madame, this man w'alks so 
firmly through the present, that it is easy to believe he has some 
knowledge of the future.” 

“ How far, if this man bad predicted a certain thing to you, 
would you believe in its coming to pass ?” 

“I should act at least as if I expected it to be realized.” 

If he had foretold that you would meet a terrible, premature, 
infamous death, would you prepare for such a death ?” 

Gilbert looked profoundly at the queen, and said, “After 
having tried all possible means to escape from such a death, I 
should certainly prepare myself for it.” 

“ To escape from it ? No, doctor, no ! I see well I am con- 
demned,” said the queen. “ This revolution is a whirlpool which 
will swallow up the throne ; this people is a lion which will 
devour me.” 

“Ah, madame,” said Gilbert, “it only depends upon you, and 
you may see this very lion, so terrible now, come and lie at your 
feet like a lamb. Did you not see this lion at Versailles ? — have 
you not seen it at the Tuileries ? It is like an ocean, madame, 
which beats incessantly — until it has destroyed it — against any 
rock which opposes itself to its strength ; but it caresses the barque 
which trusts to it.” 

“ Doctor, all connection between this people and me has been 
broken for a long time now; they hate me, I despise them.” 

“ Because you do not really understand each other. Cease to 
be their queen — be their mother. Forget that you are the 
daughter of Maria Theresa — our ancient foe — the sister of Joseph 
II. — our false friend. Be French, and you shall hear the voice 
of this people rise only to bless you, and you shall see the arms 
of this great people stretched out but to bless you.” 


THE COUNTESS DE CH ARN Y. 


190 

Marie Antoinette shrugged up her shoulders. 

“Yes, I know that — yesterday the people blessed; today they 
caress, and to-morrow they will strangle those they have blessed 
and caressed.’’ 

“ Ah ! madame,” cried Gilbert, “ be not deceived ! It is net 
the people that would rebel against the king and queen — it is 
they who have rebelled against the people, who continue to ad- 
dress them in a language full of the privileges of royalty, when 
ihey ought to speak the words of fraternity and love ! Yes ! 
Italy, Poland, Ireland, Spain, will look at this France, born 
yesterday, and cry, stretching forth their hands — chained ! 
chained ! — ‘ France, France ! we are free in thee !’ Madame, 
madame ! there is yet time ; take the young one, born yesterday, 
take it into your lap and be its mother !” 

“ Doctor,” said the queen, “ you forget that I have other 
children— children of my womb — and that I should disinherit 
them by adopting this little strange child.” 

“ If it be so, madame,” said Gilbert, in a tone of great sadness, 
“ wrap these children up in the royal mantle, in the mantle of 
war, of Maria Theresa, and carry them away from France, for 
you spoke truly when you said the people would devour you ; 
but there is no time to lose — you must be quick, madame, very 
quick r 

“ And you will not oppose this departure ?” 

“ Far from it,” answered Gilbert ; “ now I know your inten- 
tions, I will assist you.” 

“ That is well,” said the queen, “ for there is a gentleman quite 
ready to devote himself to this object.” 

“ Ah ! madame,” said Gilbert, \Yith alarm, “ you do not mean 
M. de Favras ?” 

“ Who told you his name ? who revealed his project to you ?” 

“ Oh ! madame, take care ! a fatal prediction follows him too.” 

“And from the same prophet?” “Yes, madame.” 

“And— according to this prophet, what fate awaits the mar- 
quis ?” 

“ A terrible death ! premature ! infamous ! such a one as you 
spoke of just now.” 

“ Then you indeed spoke truth ; there is no time to lose in 
order to prevent the fulfilment of the prophecies.” 

^ “ You have sent to announce to M. de Favras that you accept 
his assistance ?” 


THE MACHINE OF M. GUILLOTIK, 


191 


“Some one is with him now. I am expecting his answer every 
moment” 

At this moment, as Gilbert, frightened at the circumstances in 
which he found himself, passed his hand over his face to shut 
out the light, Madame de Lamballe entered, and whispered one 
or two words in the ear of the queen. 

“ Let him come in,” said the queen, “ let him come in ; 
the doctor knows all. Doctor,” continued she, “ M. Isidor de 
Charny brings me the answer of M. le Marquis de Favras. To- 
morrow the queen will have left Paris ; after to-morrow, the queen 
will be out of France. Come, baron, come. Great God ! what’s 
the matter, and why are you so pale ?” 

“ Madame la Princess de Lambalic has told me that I may 
speak before Doctor Gilbert,” observed Isidor. 

“ Yes, yes ; speak ! You have seen the Marquis de Favras ? 
The marquis is ready — we accept his offer —we leave Paris — we 
leave France?” 

“ The Marquis de Favras was arrested an hour ago in the Rue 
Beaurepaire and carried to the Châtelet,” said Isidor. 

The eyes of the queen crossed those of Gilbert ; they were 
luminous, desperate, full of anger. But all the strength of Marie 
Antoinette seemed to be exhausted by this flash. 

Gilbert approached her, and in a tone expressive of great pity 
said : “ Madame, if I can be of any use to you, dispose of me as 
you like ; my intelligence, my devotion, my life, I lay at once at 
your feet.” 

The queen raised her eyes slowly towards the doctor. 

Then, in a voice gentle and resigned : “ M. Gilbert,” said she, 
“ you, who are a learned man, and have assisted at the experi- 
ment of this morning, can you tell me whether the death caused 
by this frightful machine is as easy as the inventor declares it to 
be ?” 

Gilbert heaved a sigh, and covered his eyes with his hands. 

At this moment Monsieur, who knew all he wished to know, 
for the news of M. de Favras’ arrest spread like wild-fire through 
the palace, at this moment Monsieur ordered his carriage in a 
loud voice, and took his departure without taking leave of the 
king. 

Louis XVI. stopped up the passage before him. 

“ Brother, I suppose you are not,” said he, “in such a hurry 
to enter the Luxembourg, as not to be able to give me some 
counsel. What ought I to do, in your opinion ?” 


Î92 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


“ You would ask what, if I were in your place, I should do ?*• 

“ Yes.” 

“ I should abandon M. de Favras, and swear fidelity to the 
constitulion.” 

“ What ? would you recommend me to swear fidelity to a 
constitution which is not as yet made ?” 

So much the greater reason,” said Monsieur, with a cunning 
look, “ so much the greater reason, my dear brother, you should 
do so, for then there is no occasion to keep the oath.” 

The king stood thoughtfully fbr a moment. 

“ Let it be so,” said he ; “ that will not prevent my writing to 
M. de Bouillé that our project still holds, but is adjourned, put 
off. This delay will allow the Count de Charny to collect to- 
gether all who should follow us.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

MONSIEUR DISAVOWS FAVRAS, AND THE KING TAKES THE OATH 
OF THE CONSTITUTION. 

On the morning of the arrest of M. de Favras, this singular 
paper circulated through Paris : 

“ The Marquis de Favras (Place Royale) has been arrested, 
together with his wife, during the night between the 24th and 
25th, for a plan which he had of raising thirty thousand men to 
assassinate Lafayette and the mayor of the city. 

“ Monsieur, the brother to the king, was at the head. 

(Signed) “ Barauz.” 

One can easily understand the strange revolution such a paper 
made in the Paris of 1790. A train of powder fired could 
scarcely have produced a flame more rapid than that which 
passed along with this circular. At length it was in the hands 
of all. Two hours afterwards every one knew it by heart. 

On the evening of the 26th, the “ Mandataires de la Com- 
mune ” were reassembled at the Hôtel de Ville in council, when 
an usher announced that Monsieur demanded to be admitted 
to them. 

“ Monsieur !” repeated the good Bailly, who presided over 
the Assembly ; “ what monsieur ?” 

“Monsieur, the brother of the king,” replied the usher.. 


THE KING TAKES THE OATH, 


m 


At th2se words the members of the Commune looked at one 
another. The name of Monsieur had been in everybody’s 
mouth since break of day. 

Bailly cast an : .. uiring glance round the Assembly, nnd since 
the silent answers ne gathered from the faces of his companions 
were unanimous, he said : 

“ Go, announce to Monsieur that, however much astonished 
at the honour he is conferring upon us, we are ready to receive 
him.” 

Some moments after Monsieur was introduced. 

He was alone ; his face was pale, and his walk, generally 
slovenly, this evening was more so than usuai. 

By good luck for Monsieur, the lights were so placed as to 
leave a small space partially in the dark. This circumstance 
did not escape the observation of Monsieur. As yet he looked 
timidly on this immense réunion, where he found, at least re- 
spect, if not sympathy, and with a voice trembling at first, but 
which acquired firmness by degrees : 

“Gentlemen,” said he, “the desire to contradict a vile 
calumny has brought me amongst you. M. de Favras was 
arrested by your Committee of Inquiry, and they spread the 
report to-day that I was leagued with him.” 

Some smiles flitted across the faces of his auditors. 

He continued : “ In my quality of citizen of the City of Paris, 
I thought it was my duty to let you know from myself the rela- 
tions in which I stand to M. de Favras.” 

As we may easily imagine, the attention of messieurs the 
members of the Commune redoubled ; they were about to hear, 
from the very lips of Monsieur himself, what relations his high- 
ness had with M. de Favras. 

His highness continued in these terms : 

“In 1772 M. de Favras entered my Swiss guard; he left 
them in 1775. I have never spoken to him since that time.” 

A murmur of incredulity passed through the audience, but a 
glance from Bailly repressed this murmur, and Monsieur re- 
mained in doubt as to whether his speech was approved or 
disapproved. 

Monsieur went on : “ Deprived for now many months of the 
enjoyment of my revenues, rendered uneasy by certain pay- 
ments which I have to make in January, I wished to be able to 
meet my engagements without having to apply to the public 
treasury. I had resolved, consequently, to obtain money on 


194 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


mortgage. Fifteen days ago M. de Favras was pointed out to 
me by M. de la Châtre as a man likely to be able to effect it 
through a banker of Gênes. I therefore signed a bill for two 
millions, the sum necessary to meet my engagements at the 
beginning of the year and to pay for n:y house. This matter 
was purely a financial one and I told my steward to look after 
it. I have not seen M. de Favras, I have not written to him ; 
what he has done in other matters is wholly unknown to me.” 

A sneer passed through the ranks of the Commune, which 
showed that they were not disposed to believe, on Monsieur’s 
word alone, that he had placed bills for two millions in the 
hands of another without seeing him, and through an agent, 
and, above all, that agent one of his old guard. 

Monsieur blushed, and without doubt urged on by the con- 
sciousness of being in a false position, said, in a lively manner, 
“ And yet, gentlemen, I heard that there was distributed yester- 
day, throughout the capital, a paper conceived in these terms.” 

And Monsieur read — which was useless, since all there knew 
it by heart — the letter which we have before given. 

At the words, “ Monsieur, the brother to the king, was at the 
head,” all the members of the Commune bowed. 

Did they wish to imply that they were of the same opinion as 
the circular ? Did they simply mean they were listening ? 

Monsieur continued : “ You do not expect that I should defend 
myself against a charge like this; but at a time when calumnies 
of which every one must see the absurdity may easily confound 
the best citizens with the enemies of the revolution, I have 
thought it my duty, gentlemen, both to the king, to you, and 
myself, to enter into the details which you have just heard, in 
order that public opinion may recognise the truth at once.* 
Since the day when, in the second assembly of great men, I 
declared myself on the great questions which still cause some 
division of opinion, I have not ceased to believe that a g’-eat 
revolution was ready, and that the king, through his virtues and 
superior rank, ought to be at the head of it, since it could not 
be of advantage to the nation without being equally so to the 
monarch.” 

Although the sense was not very clear in these last expres- 
sions, yet the habit they had acquired of applauding some forms 
of words caused them to applaud these. 

Encouraged by this, Monsieur raised his voice, and added, 
addressing the Assembly with a little more assurance : 


THE KLVG TAKES THE OATH, 


I9S 

“Until they can bring forward one of my actions, one of my 
speeches, which contradicts, in any way, the principles I have 
professed — until they can show that the happiness of both king 
and people has not been my constant thought, my every wish — 
I have the right to be believed. I have changed neither senti- 
ments nor principles, and I never shall change 1” 

The Mayor of Paris replied : “ Monsieur, it is a matter of 
great satisfaction to the representatives of the Commune cf 
Paris to see amongst them the brother of a cherished king, and 
of a king who is the restorer of French liberty ! August brothers ! 
the same sentiment unites you ! Monsieur showed himself the 
first citizen ready to vote for the Third Estate in the second 
Assembly ; he was nearly the only one of this opinion, save a 
few friends of the people. Monsieur, then, is the first author of 
civil equality. In coming to mix with the representatives of the 
Commune, he has shown, to-day, that he only washes to be 
known through his patriotic sentiments. These sentiments con- 
sist of the explanation wEich Monsieur has just made to the 
Assembly. The prince comes before public opinion, and citi- 
zens value the opinion of their fellow'-citizens. I offer Monsieur, 
then, in the name of the Assembly, the tribute and respect 
w’hich it owes to the sentiments and the presence of his royal 
highness, and particularly to the value he attaches to men being 
free.” 

Then, when Monsieur understood, without doubt, that in 
spite of the praise bestow^ed on his conduct by Bailly, it would 
be differently judged afterwards, he replied, with that paternal 
air which he knew so w'ell how to assume, whenever he thought 
it w’ould answer : 

“ Gentlemen, the duty I have just fulfilled has been a painful 
one for a virtuous heart, but I am sufficiently compensated by 
the sentiments which the Assembly have so kindly expressed tc- 
w’ards me, and my mouth ought only to be opened to ask pardon 
for those who have offended me.” 

Monsieur had thus performed his part of the counsel w'hich 
he had given to his brother Louis XVL 

He had thrown off M. de Favras, and as we have seen, 
owing to the praises of the virtuous Bailly, the scheme had been 
successful. 

Louis XVL, on hearing this, determined, on his side, to swear 
fidelity to the constitution. 

One fine morning the usher came and told the President of 

13—2 


THE COUATESS DE CHAR NY. 


153 

the Assembly, who on this day was M. Bureaux de Pusey, just 
as the usher had reported Monsieur to the mayor — that the king, 
with one or two ministers and three or four officers, knocked at 
the door of the manege as Monsieur had knocked at the door 
of the Hôtel de Ville. 

The representatives of the people looked astonished. What 
could the king have to say to them, after being for so long sepa- 
rated from them ? 

They caused Louis XVI. to be introduced, and the president 
gave him up his arm-chair. 

All at once the saloon resounded with acclamations ! All 
France, except Petion, Camille Desmoulins and Marat, believed 
that it was once more loyal. 

The king had wished to come and felicitate the Assembly 
upon what it had effected — to praise this beautiful division cf 
France into departments ; but what he could no longer sup- 
press was the great love he entertained for the constitution. 

The commencement of the discourse caused some uneasiness, 
the middle was gratifying, but the end — the end brought out all 
the enthusiasm of the Assembly. 

The king could not resist expressing his love for this little 
constitution of 179T, which was not as yet even born: what 
would he do, then, when he saw it some day full grown ? 

We cannot give the discourse of the king ; there are six 
pages of it ; it is quite enough to have quoted that of Monsieur. 
As much as there is, however, Louis XVI. did not seem too 
wordy to the Assembly, which was often moved to tears. 

When we say that it was moved to tears, we do not say so 
metaphorically — Barnave, Lameth, Dupont, Mirabeau, Barrère, 
all wept. It was quite a deluge. 

The king left — but the king and the Assembly could not part 
so ; it came out after him and hastened to the Tuileries, where 
the queen received it. 

The queen, the stern daughter of Maria Theresa, was no 
enthusiast — she did not weep ; she presented her son to the 
deputies of the nation. 

“ Gentlemen,” said she, “ I share all the sentiments of the 
king. Here is my son ! I shall not neglect to teach him, in 
good time, to imitate the virtues of the besi cf fathers, to respect 
public liberty, and to maintain the laws, of which I hope he will 
be the most firm pillar.” 

Now there wr.s a real enthusiasm. Thiey proposed to take 


THE KING TAKES THE OATH, 


197 


the oaths that very instant They formed themselves into a sit- 
ting of the Assembly. First of all the president pronounced the 
following words : 

“ I swear to be faithful to the nation, and to uphold with all 
my power the constitution decreed by the National Assembly, 
and accepted by the king.” 

And all the members of the Assembly accepted the oath at 
once, and raising his hand, each in turn said, “ I sw^ear !” 

For the ten days following, the peace of Paris expended itself 
in balls, fêtes, and firew’orks. From all parts came news of 
oaths being taken ; all over they were busy sw'earing ; people 
swore on the Grève, at the Hôtel de Ville, in the churches, in 
the streets, in the public squares : altars were erected to La 
Patrie — to these they conducted all scholars, and they took the 
oath, just as if they had been men and understood what was 
meant by it. 

The Assembly directed a Te Deum to be sung, and there, on 
the altar, before God, they renewed their oath. 

The king only was not present at Nôtre-Dame, and so did 
not swear again. 

His absence was remarked, but ail were so pleased, so con- 
fident, that they were quite satisfied with the first excuse he 
pleased to give them. 

“ Why have you not been to the Te Deum 1 why have you 
not sworn like the rest, on the altar of God ?” the queen asked, 
ironically. 

“ Because,” was the answer of Louis XVI., “ I wish to lie 
well, and not to forswear myself” 

The queen breathed. Until then, like the rest, she had 
beUeved in the good faith of the king. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A GENTLEMAN. 

This visit of the king to the Assembly took place on the 4th of 
February, 1790. 

Twelve days later — that is to say, in the course of the night 
of the 17th of the same month, in the absence of the governor 
of the Châtelet, who had leave to go to Soissons, where his 


198 


THE COUNTESS DE CH ARN Y, 


mother was dying — a man presented himself at the gate of the 
prison, bearing an order signed by the lieutenant of police 
authorizing the visitor to speak, without a witness, to M. de 
Favras. 

We cannot say whether the order was a forgery or not ; but 
at any rate, the sub-governor, whom they awoke in order to 
submit it to him, considered it was all right, and directed him, 
in spite of the lateness cf the hour, to be admitted into the cell 
of M. de Favras. 

After having issued the proper orders, he returned to his bed 
to complete the night’s rest which had thus been broken. 

The visitor, under the pretence that in drawing the order 
from his pocket-book he had dropped an important paper, took 
the lamp and looked on the floor, just as he saw M. le Sous 
Directeur of the Châtelet enter his apartment. Then he said 
he believed he had left it on his dressing-table, and he begged 
them, in any case, to give it to him before his departure. 

Then, giving the lamp to the chief turnkey, he invited him to 
conduct him to the cell of M. de Favras. 

The turnkey opened a door, allowed the unknown to pass, 
and in his turn followed, and shut the last door behind him. 

He seemed to look at the unknown with curiosity as he 
attended him. 

They descended twelve steps, and found themselves in a sub- 
terraneous corridor. 

Then a second door presented itself ; it was opened and re- 
locked like the first by the jailer. 

The unknown and his guide found themselves now on a kind 
of landing, having before them a second flight of steps to de- 
scend. The unknown stopped, gazed into the dark corridor, 
and when he was assured that the obscurity was as solitary as 
silent : 

“ You are the chief turnkey, Louis T asked he. 

“ Yes ?” replied the jailer. 

“A brother of the American lodge?” “Yes.” 

“You have been placed here for these last eight days by a 
mysterious hand to effect something unknown ?” “ Yes !” ' 

“ You are ready to accomplish this work ?” “ I am ready,* 

“You were to receive your orders from a man ?” 

“ Yes, of the anointed.” 

“ How were you to recognize this man ?” 

“ By three letters, embroidered, on a plastron.* 


A GENTLEMAN'. 


199 


“ I am that man, look at the three letters.** 

On saying these words, the visitor opened his coat, and 
showed embroidered on its breast the three letters L. P. D. 

“ Master,” said the jailer, bowing, “ I am at your service.” 

“Very well ; open the cell of M. de Favras, and be ready to 
obey me.” 

The jailer bowed without answering, and passing on in front, 
in order to light the way, he stopped before a door. 

“ This is it,” he murmured in a low voice. 

The unknown made a sign with his head ; the key, already 
in the lock, turned twice, and the door stood open. 

Although they had taken every precaution to prevent the 
prisoner’s escape, by putting him in a cell twenty feet under 
ground, they had not been careless of his comfort. He had a 
good bed with white curtains. Near this bed was a table, 
covered with books, pens, ink, and paper, intended, no doubt, 
to assist him to prepare his defence. 

A lamp crowned all. 

Upon a second table, in a corner, glittered the articles of the 
toilet, such as had been taken from the dressing-case of the 
marquis himself. 

M. de Favras slept so soundly, that the door was opened, 
the unknown approached his bed, and a second lamp was 
placed on the table by the jailer, who withdrew at a gesture 
of the visitor, without awaking him. 

For a moment the unknown regarded the sleeping man with 
a profound melancholy, and then, as if remembering that time 
was precious, he shook the s’eeper by the shoulder. 

The prisoner turned, and was at once thoroughly awake, 
with eyes wide open, like those who are in the habit of sleeping 
always expecting to be waked to hear bad news. 

“Be composed, M. de Favras,” said the unknown, “it is a 
friend.’* 

For an instant M. de Favras looked at the visitor with an air 
of doubt which expressed his astonishment that any friend 
should come to seek him at some eighteen or twenty feet under 
ground. Then, all at once, recalling his recollections : “ Ah I” 
said he, “ the Baron Zanoni.” 

“Myself, dear marquis.” 

Favras smiled, and looking round him, pointed out with his 
finger a stool which held neither books nor clothes. “ Will 
you sit down ?” said he to the baron. 


zoo 


THE COUNTESS DR CHARNY, 


“ My dear marquis, I come to propose a thing that admits 
of no long discussion, and since we have no time to lose ” 

“ What are you going to propose, my dear baron P’* 

“ You know they will try you to-morrow.” 

** Yes, I have heard something like that,” replied Favras. 

“ You know that the judges before whom you will appear are 
the same as those who acquitted Augeard and Bézenval ?” 

“ Yes.” 

** Do you know that neither was acquitted except through the 
intervention of the court ?” 

A third time Favras replied, “Yes,” without there being any 
perceptible alteration in his voice. 

“ Without doubt, you hope the court will do for you what it 
has done for your predecessors ?” 

“ Those who have had the honour to assist me in relation to 
the enterprise that has brought me here ought surely to do 
something for my sake, M. le Baron. Let what they do be 
well done.” 

“ They have already determined what to do ; and I can in- 
struct you as to what course they intend to pursue.” 

Favras did not exhibit any curiosity to know. 

“ Monsieur,” continued the visitor, “ has presented himself 
at the Hôtel de Ville and declared that he did not know you 
now, that in 1772 you had entered into the guards, and that in 
1775 you had left them, and since that time he had never seen 
you once.” 

Favras bowed his head as a token of acquiesence. 

“ As far as regards the king, he not only no more thinks of 
flying, but on the fourth of the present month he went to the 
National Assembly and swore to the constitution !” 

A smile passed over Favras’ lips. 

“ Do you doubt the truth of this ?” asked the baron. 

“ I did not say so,” said Favras. 

“ Then you will see at once, marquis, that it will not do to 
reckon on Monsieur, nor on the king either.” 

“Right ! M. le Baron.” 

“You will go before the judges.’* 

“ You have told me so before.” 

“ You will be condemned !” “ It is very likely.” 

“ And to death.” “ It is very possible.” 

And Favras stretched himself out like a man about to receive 
the last stroke. 


A GENTLEMAI7. 


201 


“ But,” said the baron, “ do you know to what death, my dear 
marquis ?” 

“ Are there two kinds of death, dear baron?” 

“ There are ten : there are the wheel, hanging, pieces, etc., 
and for more than a week there has been one which combines 
them all ; as you say, there is but one now — the gallows !” 

“ The gallows !” 

‘‘Yes, the Assembly, having proclaimed equality before the 
law, have found it but just to proclaim equality in deaih 
Nobles and peasants must now go out of the world through the 
same gate. You will be hung, my dear marquis.” 

“Ah !” said Favras. 

“ Condemned to death, you will be hung ; a very disagreeable 
thing, I am sure, to a gentleman who does not fear death, but 
only dislikes the mode of it.” 

“ M. le Baron,” said Favras, “ have you only come here to 
inform me of this bad news, or have you something else better 
left to tell me ?” 

“ I came to tell you that all is ready for your escape, and to 
assure you that in ten minutes, if you wish, you can be out of 
your prison, and in twenty- four hours out of France.” 

Favras reflected a moment, without letting the baron see that 
it caused him any emotion ; then, addressing his questioner : 
“ Does this offer come from the king, or his royal highness?” 

“ No, sir ! it comes from me.” 

Favras looked at the baron. 

“ From you, sir,” said he, “ and why from you ?” 

“ From the interest I take in you, marquis.” 

“ What interest can you have in me ?” asked Favras ; “ you 
have seen me but twice.” 

“ One does not require to see a man twice in order to know 
him, my dear marquis. True gentlemen are rare, and I wish 
to save one, I will not say for France, but for humanity.” 

“ You have no other reason, then ?” 

“ There is another reason. Having negotiated a bill of two 
millions for you, money which has been spent in promoting the 
affair which brought you here to-day, I feel myself implicated 
in vour death — that I have contributed to it.” 

Favras smiled. “ If you have not committed a w^orse crime 
than that, you may sleep easily,” said he, “ 1 pardon you.” 

“ What ?” cried the baron, “ you refuse to fly ?” 

Favras stretched out his hand to him. “ I thank you fiom 


203 


THE COUNTESS DE CHAR H Y. 


the bottom of my heart, M. le Baron,” replied he ; “ T thank 
you in the names of my wife and my children, but I refuse.” 

“ Because, perhaps, you think our measures ill-taken, and you 
are afraid to trust to an escape which, if discovered, would 
aggravate your offence ?” 

“ I believe, sir, that you are a prudent man. I will say more 
— that you are adventurous, since you yourself come to propose 
this escape to me; but I repeat, I do not wish to fly.” 

“ V/ithout doubt, you think, monsieur, that forced to fly from 
France, you will leave your wife and children in misery there. 
I have foreseen that, and offer you this pocket-book, in which 
you will nnd one hundred thousand francs in bank notes.” 

Favras looked at the baron with a kind of admiration. Then, 
shaking his head : “ It is not that, monsieur,” said he, “ upon 
my word, and without your having had to offer me this pocket- 
book, if it had been my intention to leave France, I should have 
fled. But once more, my mind is made up ; I will not fly.” 

The baron looked at him who gave him this firm refusal, as 
if he doubted whether he possessed his senses. 

“ This astonishes you,” said Favras, with a singular degree of 
serenity, ‘‘and you ask yourself, without daring to ask me, 
whence arises this strange determination to wait to the end, and 
to meet death, if necessary, whatever that death may be.” 

“ I confess so, monsieur.” 

“ I will tell you. I am a royalist, monsieur, but not of that 
kind who emigrate, or remain dissimulating at Paris. My 
opinion is not founded upon a sordid calculation of interest— 
it is a faith, a religion, and kings are no more to me than a 
bishop or a pope ; that is to say, it is of the visible representa- 
tives of this faith, this religion, I am speaking now. If I 
fly, it will be said that the king or Monsieur have caused me to 
escape ; if they have let me escape, they were my accomplices. 
Religions fall, my dear baron, when there are no longer any 
martyrs; I will rouse up mine by dying for it ! This shall be 
a reproach cast upon the past, an advertisement offered to the 
future !” 

“ But think of the kind of death which awaits you •” urged 
the baron. 

“ The more infamous the death, tne more meritorious will be 
the sacrifice. Christ died on a cross between thieves.” 

“ I could understand that, monsieur,” said the baron, “ if 
your death would have the same influence on royalty as that of 


J GENTLEMAN, 


203 


Clirîst had on the world. But the sins of kings are so great, 
that so fa'; from thinking that the blood of a simple gentleman 
will wash them away, I do not think that even the blood of a 
king can do it !” 

“ That will be as God pleases, M. le Baron ; but at a time 
when so many are wanting in their duty, I shall Hîe with the 
consolation of having fulfilled mine.” 

“ Ah, no, monsieur 1” said the baron, with an air of im- 
patience ; “ you may die with the simple regret that your death 
is of no use.” 

“ When the disarmed soldier will not fly, when he awaits the 
enemy, when he braves death, when he receives it, he knows 
perfectly well that his death is useless — he can only say that 
flight were cowardly, and that he had rather die 1* 

“ Monsieur,” said the baron, “ I cannot stay to argue.” 

He drew cut his watch ; it was three o’clock in the morning. 

We have yet one hour,” continued he. “ I will sit at this 
table and read for half-an-hour ; during this time reflect. In 
half an-hour you wall give me a definite answer.” 

And taking a chair, he sat dowm against the table, his back 
turned to the prisoner, and began to read. 

“ Good-night, monsieur,” said Favras. 

And he turned his face to the w'all, without doubt to reflect 
more undisturbedly. 

The reader drew his watch from his pocket tw'o or three 
times ; more impatient than the prisoner, when the half hour 
was gone, he rose and w'ent toward the bed. But he had 
W'aited in vain — Favras did not turn. 

The baron leant over him, and discovered from his regular 
and calm breathing that the prisoner slept. 

“Allons!” said he, speaking to himself, “I am conquered, 
but judgment is not yet pronounced ; perhaps he still doubts.” 

And not wishing to aw'ake the unhappy marquis again, he 
seized a pen and wrote upon a sheet of white paper the follow'- 
ing: 

“ When sentence is passed, and M. de Favras is condemned to 
death, when he has no hope either in the judges or Monsieur, 
should he change his opinion, M. de Favras has only to call the 
jailer, Louis, and say to him : ‘ I am decided to fly,’ and means 
will be provided to assist his flight. 

“When M. de Favras is in the fatal wagon, when M. d.; 


204 


THE COUNTESS DE CIIARNY. 


Favras begs pardon in front of Notre-Dame, when M. de Favras 
traverses, with naked feet and bound hands, the short space that 
separates the steps of the Hôtel de Ville from the gallows on 
the Grève, he has only to pronounce the words : ‘ I wish to be 
saved T artd he shall be saved. 

“ Cagliostro.’^ 

When he had written the above, the visitor took the lamp, and 
advanced to the bed a second time to see if Favras still slept. 
He then regained the door of the cell, but not without returning 
several times, behind which, with the imperturbable resignation 
of those disciples who are ready to sacrifice everything to gain 
their end, Louis, the jailer, was standing immovable. 

“ Well, master,” he asked, “ what shall I do ?” 

‘‘ Remain in the prison, and do whatever M. de Favras com- 
mands thee.” 

The jailer bowed his assent, took the lamp from the hand of 
Cagliostro, and walked respectfully before him, as a valet who 
lights his master. 

The same day the chief jailer, about an hour after mid-day, 
descended with four armed men into the prison of M. de Favras, 
and announced to him that he must prepare to appear before 
his judges. M. de Favras had been forewarned of this during 
the night by Cagliostro, and at nine in the morning by the sub- 
lieutenant to the Châtelet The general hearing of the trial 
commenced at nine, and was still proceeding at three o’clock. 
Since before nine in the morning the Salle had been crowded 
with persons curious to see hiai whose sentence was about to be 
pronounced. 

Forty judges were arranged in a circle at the end of the salle, 
the president upon a da'i;, a painting representing the cruci- 
fixion of our Saviour was immediately behind him, and at the 
other end of the hall, just opposite, was the portrait of the king, 

A number of the grenadiers of the National Guard guarded 
the Hall of Justice, both within and without. Four men kept 
watch at the door. 

At a quarter to three the judges ordered the accused to be 
brought. A detachment of a dozen grenadiers, who waited in 
the middle of the salle for this order, immediately marched off. 

After this, every head, even including those of the judges, was 
turned towards the door through which M. de Favras would enter. 
At the end of about ten minutes, four of the grenadiers re-ap- 


A C/rXTLÆMAX. 


205 

peared. Behind them marched the Marquis de Favras. The 
other eight gjenadiers followed after him. 

The prisoner’s face was perfectly calm ; his toilet had been 
attended to with evident care : he wore an embroidered coat, a 
white satin vest, a culotte of the same material and workmanship 
as his coat, silk stockings, and buckled shoes, with the cross of 
St. Louis in his hat His hair was carefully dressed and 
powdered. 

During the short time it took M. de Favras to pass from the 
door to the place which the prisoners generally occupied, every 
breath in the hall was suspended. Some moments elapsed 
between the arrival of the accused in his place and the first 
words being addressed to him. At last the judges made with 
their heads their useless but habitual sign for silence. 

“ Who are you ?” asked the president. “ I am the 

prisoner,” answered Favras, with the greatest calmness. 

“What is your name?” “Thomas Mahi, Marquis de 

Favras.” 

“ Where do you come from ?” “ From Blois.” 

“ What is your station ?” “ Colonel in the service of tne 

king.” 

“ Where do you live?” “ Place Royale, No. 21.” 

“Plow old are you.” “ P'orty-six.” 

“Sit down.” The marquis obeyed. 

Then only did respiration return to the spectators, and it 
seemed like a respiration of vengeance. 

The prisoner looked round him : every eye was full of hate, 
every finger threatening ; one felt that he must fall. 

In the midst of all these angry countenances, the accused re- 
cognised the calm face anl friendly eye of his visitor on the 
previous night. He saluted him with an imperceptible nod, 
and continued his review. “ Accused,” said the president, “ be 
ready to answer.” 

Favras bowed. “ I am at your orders, M. le President,” said 
he. 

Then commenced the second examination, which the prisoner 
went through as calmly as he had done the first. Then the wic- 
nesses were summoned. Favras, who refused to save his life by 
flight, wished to do so by discussion and argument ; he had 
summoned fourteen witnesses to answer the charge. The wit- 
nesses to prove the charge were heard, and he expected his ow.n 
to be brought forward now, when, all at once, he heard the fob 


2o6 the countess de charny. 

lowing words pronounced by the president : “ Gentlemen, the 

case is closed.” 

“ Pardon, monsieur,” said Favras, with his habitual courtesy, 
“ you have forgotten one thing — of little importance, it is true, — 
but you have forgotten to examine the fourteen witnesses sum- 
moned at my request.” 

“ The court,” replied the president, ‘‘ has decided that they 
will not hear them.” 

A slight cloud passed over the face of the accused. “ I thought 
I was to be tried at the Châtelet of Paris,” said he, “ but I was 
v^rong — I am tried, it appears, by a Spanish Inquisition.” 

“ Remove the prisoner,” said the president. 

Favras was reconducted to his prison. His calmness, courtesy, 
and courage had made some impression upon those spectators 
who had come to this trial without prejudice. But these were 
but a small number. Tiie departure of Favras was accompanied 
with cries, menaces and howls. 

“No pardon ! no pardon 1” cried five hundred voices, as he 
passed along. 

Such cries accompanied him from the court to his prison. 

Then, as if speaking to himself, he murmured, “ See what it is 
to plot with princes.” 

As soon as their prisoner had gone, the judges commenced 
their deliberations. 

At his usual hour Favras went to bed. Towards one in the 
morning somebody entered his prison and awoke him — this was 
the turnkey, Louis. He had seized the opportunity to bring a 
bottle of wine to the marquis. “ M. de Favras,” said he, “ the 
judges have this moment pronounced your sentence.” 

“My friend,” said the marquis, “ was it simply to tell me 
that that you awoke me. You might have let me sleep.” 

“No, monsieur, I roused you to inquire whether you had 
nothing to say to the person who visited you last night.” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ Reflect, M. le Marquis ; when judgment is pronounced, you 
will be more strictly guarded, and however powerful that person 
may be, yet he may not afterwards be able to effect your escape.” 

“ Thanks, my friend,” said Favras; “but neither now, nor at 
any time, shall I have to ask him for anything.” 

“ Then I am sorry,” said the jailer, “ that I disturbed you ; 
but you would have been roused in another hour’s time.” 


A GENTLEMAN. 


flc7 

Well,” said Favras, “ according to your opinion, it’s scarcely 
V/orth while going to sleep again, then ?” 

“Listen,” said the turnkey; “judge for yourself.” 

There was a great noise in the corridors above : doors opened 
and shut— arms weVe presented. 

“ Ah ! ah !” said Favras, “ all this bother is for me, then ?” 

•* They are coming to read the sentence, M. le Marquis.” 

“ Diable ! they must give me time to dress.” 

The jailer immediately went out, fastening the door behind 
him. 

During this time M. de Favras hurriedly dressed himself. 

He was still at his toilet when the door opened. 

He looked well — his head thrown back, his hair half dressed, 
his lace shirt open at the breast. 

At the moment the clerk of the court entered his cell he was 
turning down the collar of his shirt on to his shoulders. 

“You see, monsieur,” said he to the clerk, “I am prepared 
for you, and ready for the combat.” 

And he passed his hand over his uncovered neck— ready for 
the aristocratic sword or ])lebeian cord. 

“ Speak, monsieur,” he said ; “ I listen.” 

The clerk read, or rather lisped out, the sentence. 

The marquis was condemned to death, he was to make the 
amende ko7iorable in front of Notre-Dame and immediately to be 
hanged at the Grève. 

Favras listened with the greatest calmness, and did not even 
raise an eye-brow at the word hanged, a word that grates on 
the ear of a gentleman. 

He said, only after a minute’s silence, and looking the clerk 
in the face : 

“ Oh ! monsieur, how sorry I am you have been compelled to 
condemn a man upon such slight proof.” 

The clerk avoided answering. 

“ Monsieur,” said he, “ you are aware that there is no hope 
for you, except what religion offers — shall I send you a con- 
fessor ?” 

“A confessor at the hands of those who are about to as- 
sassinate me ? No, sir, I should be suspicious of him. I am 
quite willing to give you my life, but I set some value on my 
safety hereafter. I should like to see the priest of Saint Paul’s.” 

Two hours afterwards this venerable priest was seated with the 
Marquis de Favras. 


20 $ 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


A tumbril, surrounded by a numerous guard, was waiting at 
the gate of the Châtelet. A lighted torch was in the tumbril. 
When they saw the condemned, the multitude clapped their 
hands. Since six o’clock in the morning, when the sentence had 
been made known, the people had been collectmg together. 

Favras got into the tumbril with a firm step. He sat down on 
ihe side where the torch was, for he knew that the torch was meant 
for him. The priest of Saint Paul’s got in directly afterwards, 
and sat on the left. The executioner mounted last, and sat be- 
hind him. Before sitting down, the executioner passed the rope 
around Favras’ neck. He held the other end in his hand. 

Just as the tumbril commenced to move, there was a move- 
ment in the crowd. Favras naturally turned his head and looked 
in that direction. He saw some people pushing their way into 
the front rank, and getting better places. All at once he started, 
in spite of himself ; for, in the first rank, and in the midst of five 
or six of his companions, who were about to make a rush through 
the crowd, he recognised the visitor who had said that to the 
very last moment he would watch over him. 

The condemned made him a sign with his head — one only, 
a sign of acknowledgment. 

The tumbril continued on its way, and did not stop until it 
reached Nôtre Dame. The road through the middle of the 
crowd was open, and the principal altar, brilliantly lit by wax 
candles, could be seen for some distance. 

“ It is necessary to descend here in order to make the amende 
honorable,^ said the executioner. 

Favras obeyed, without answering. 

The priest descended first, then the prisoner, and lastly the 
executioner, always retaining the end of the cord in his hands. 

His arms were bound at the elbow : this left the hands of the 
marquis free. In his right hand they placed ihe torch, in his 
left the judgment. He then walked to the porch of the church, 
and knelt down. 

In the front rank of those that surrounded him he recognized 
the same men who had startled him when he first mounted the 
tumbril. This perseverance seemed to touch him, but no word 
escaped frc^m his mouth. 

A jailer of the Châtelet seemed to be waiting for him there. 
“ Read, monsieur,” said he, in a loud voice. Then, in a low 
tone, he added : “ M. le Marquis, you know if you wish to be 
saved you have only one word to say !” 

Without answering, the condemned began reading. 


A GENTLEMAN. 


209 


He read m a loud voice, and nothing in tone or manner 
showed the least emotion. When he had done reading, he ad- 
dressed those around him : 

“ Ready to appear before my God,” said he, “ I pardon the 
men who, against their conscience, have found me guilty. I love 
my king ; I die faithful to him. I am setting an example which 
1 hope will be followed by other noble hearts. The people ask 
for my death ; they w^ant a victim. I had rather that the fatal 
choice should fall upon me than upon another, wlio might not 
be able to undergo unmerited punishment without despair. 
And now, if there is nothing else to be done, let us be proceed- 
ing, gentlemen.” 

And so they went on. 

It is not very far from the porch of Nôtre Dame to the Place 
de Grève, and yet the tumbril took a full hour to go there. 

With a firm step Favras descended and walked towards the 
scaffold. 

At the very moment that he placed his foot on the first step, 
a voice cried out, “Jump, marquis !” 

The grave and Qpnorous voice of the criminal replied, 
“ Citizens, I die innocent, pray for me !” 

At the eighth step, that is to say, the one from which he would 
be thrown, he repeated a third time, “ Citizens ! 1 die innocent, 
pray for me !” 

But one of the assistants of the hangman immediately said, 

“ Then you do not wish to be saved ?” 

“ Thanks, my good friend,” said Favras ; “God will reward 
you for your good intentions.” 

Then, raising his head towards the hangman, “ Do your duty,” 
said he. 

He had scarcely pronounced the words before the hangman 
pushed him off and his body swung in the air. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE MONARCHY IS SAVED. 

Some days after the execution which we have narrated, a horse- 
man slowly paced the avenue of St. Cloud. 

This slowness could be attributed to neither the fatigue of the 

U 


310 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


rider nor the weariness of the horse : both had taken it gently. 
The foam made by the champing of the bit showed that the 
horse had been restrained. 

The deep thought into which the rider had fallen seemed to 
retard him, or else he was taking care to arrive only at a certain 
hour, which had not yet struck. 

He was a man of about forty,' whose powerful lineaments did 
not want character : his head was large, his cheeks were puffed 
out, his face was covered with little wrinkles, he had two quick 
sharp eyes, and a mouth always ready to express satire. Such 
was the man who, at first sight, one felt must occupy a high 
position and make a great noise in the world. 

Arrived at the top of the avenue, he leaped without any hesi- 
tation over the gate leading to the court of the palace. 

Betwixt two buildings to the right another man was waiting. 
He made a sign to the cavalier to come on. A door was opened, 
and the cavalier, following the other, found himself in a secret 
court. There the man stopped. He was dressed in black. 
Then, looking round him, and observing that the court was 
empty, he approached the cavalier hat in hand. 

The cavalier, by leaning over the neck of his horse, brought 
himself in some measure opposite him. 

“ M. Weber,” said he, in a low tone. 

“ M. le Comte de Mirabeau,” answered the latter. 

“ The same,” said the cavalier ; and more lightly than one 
could have supposed, he alighted on the ground. 

“ Enter,” said Weber ; “ but will you wait a moment until I 
myself put the horse into a stable. 

At the same time he opened the door of a saloon whose win- 
dows and other door opened upon the park. 

Mirabeau entered into the saloon, and employed the few 
moments he was left alone by Weber in taking off the large 
boots which had preserved him from the mud during his ride. 

Weber, as he promised, entered in the course of five minutes. 
“Come, M. le Comte,” said he, “the queen expects you.” 

Weber opened a door opening on the garden, and plunged 
into I. labyrinth of alleys, which led to the most solitary part 
of the park. There, in the midst of gloomy trees, appeared a 
pavilion, known by the name of the kiosque. The .Venetian 
blinds of this pavilion were closed, with the exception of two, 
which, just resting one against the other, allowed a small quan- 
tity of light to illumine the interior. A great fire was burning 


1 HE MONA E CH V /S S A FED, 


2II 


on the hearth, and two branches were lit on the chimney- 
piece. 

“ M. le Comte Riquetti de Mirabeau,” said Weber, on open- 
ing the door of the kiosque, and then drew aside to allow his 
companion to enter the chamber. 

If he had listened, as the count passed him, he might have 
heard the beating of his heart against his large chest. 

When the presence of the count was announced, a woman in 
the most distant corner of the kiosque rose, and advanced to- 
wards him with some hesitation and even terror. 

This woman was the queen. 

Her heart also beat violently. She had before her this hated, 
decried, fatal man ; this man who was accused of having caused 
the 5th and 6th of Ociober; this man towards whom they had 
turned for a moment, but who had been repulsed by the court, 
and who, since then, had made them feel the necessity of treat- 
ing with him again, by two flashes of lightning, as it were, which 
had even approached the sublime. 

The first was his apostrophe to the clergy. 

The second was the speech in which he explained how it was 
that the representatives of the people had constituted themselves 
into a National Assembly. 

Having advanced a few paces, he bowed and waited. 

The queen spoke, and said, “ M. de Mirabeau, M. Gilbert 
assured us you w^ere disposed to join us.” 

Mirabeau bowed in assent. 

The queen continued : “ Then an overture was made, to 
which you replied by proposing a ministry.” 

Mirabeau again bowxd assentingly. 

The queen continued : “ It is not our fault if this do not 
succeed.” 

“I think so, madame, especially your majesty’s. It may, 
however, be the fault of the people who say they are de\ oted 
to the monarchy.” 

“Alas ! count, that is one of the perils of our position. We 
can choose neither our friends nor our foes, and w’e are often 
forced to accept these unfortunate friendships. ^ We are sur- 
rounded by men who wish to serve, but who ruin us. Their 
conduct in keeping members of the present from the next legis- 
lature is a fair instance. Shall I name one? You would scarcely 
believe it, but one of our most devoted friends, a man w'horn I 
am sure would die for us, took to our public dinner the widow 

14—2 


212 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


and children of M. de Favras, all in mourning. My first emotion, 
when I saw them, was to rise, hurry to them, and place the 
family of a man who died for us by my side, for I am not one 
of those who forget their friends. Every eye was fixed on me, 
all waited to see what we would do. Know you who stood 
behind my chair ? Sauterre, the man of the Faubourg. I sank 
back weeping with rage, and did not dare to look at the widow 
and orphans. The royalists will blame me for not having noticed 
the widow and children, the revolutionists will be furious be- 
cause they will think they came with my permission. Monsieur,” 
said the queen, shaking her head sadly, “ one can but perish 
when one is attacked by men of genius, and defended by 
people who certainly are very estimable, but who have no idea 
of our position.” 

The queen sighed, and placed her handkerchief to her eyes. 

“ Madame,” said Mirabeau, touched by this great misfortune, 
which he was not ignorant of, and which, either by the shrewd 
skill of the queen, or from her womanly weakness, exhibited to 
him her tears and sufferings, “ when you speak of men who 
attack you, I trust you do not refer to me. I professed mon- 
archical principles when I saw nothing but weakness in the court| 
and when I knew nothing of the heart and feelings of the august 
daughter of Maria Theresa ; I fought for the rights of the throne 
when my every step excited suspicion, and every act was mis- 
represented and maligned ; I served the king when I knew that, 
just and august as he was, I had from him to expect neither 
honour nor reward ; what will I not do now, madame, when 
confidence sustains my courage, and gratitude for your majesty’s 
reception makes obedience a duty ? It is late, madame, I know, 
very late,” said Mirabeau, shaking his head ; “ perhaps, in pro- 
posing to me to save monarchy, you propose to me to perish 
with it Had I reflected, I would perhaps have chosen another 
time than one immediately preceding that on which his majesty 
is about to deliver the famous red book, that is the honour of 
his friends, to the Chamber.” 

“ Ah, sir,” said the queen, “ think you the king is an accom- 
plice of this treason, and are you ignorant how that occurred ? 
The red book was surrendered to the coi.:.nittee by the king, 
only on condition that they would keep it strictly secret. The 
committee caused it to be printed, thus breaking their word. 
They, not the king, are guilty.” 

“Alas, madame, you know what made them determine on the 


THE MONARCHY IS SA VED. 


213 


publication of that, which, as a man of honour, I disapprove. 
At the very moment when the king was swearing fidelity to the 
constitution, he had a permanent agent at Turin, amid the 
mortal enemies of the constitution. At the hour he spoke of 
pecuniary reforms, and seemed disposed to accept those pro- 
posed to him by the Assembly, there was, at Trêves, paid and 
sustained by him, his grand and petty stable, under the orders 
of the Prince de Lambesq, a person so peculiarly obnoxious to 
the Parisians, that every day they demand that he be hung in 
effigy. To the Count d’Artois, to the Prince de Condé, to all 
the emigres^ vast pensions are paid, in violation of a decree, 
passed several months since, suppressing pensions. True, the 
king forgot to sanction this decree. For two months, madame, 
there has been an attempt to discover what became of 60,000,000 
of money ; yet none can tell The king was begged, besought 
to explain what had been done with it ; he refused to reply, and 
the committee felt itself relieved of its promise and printed the 
book. Why does the king put arms into the hands of others to 
be used so dangerously against him ?” 

“ Ah, sir !” said the queen, “ were you of the king’s counsel, 
you w’ould not recommend him to adopt these follies with which 
— I must speak the word — he dishonours himself !” 

“ Had I, madame, the honour of being the king’s counsellor. 
I would be the defender of royal poweis regulated by law, and 
the apostle of liberty guaranteed by monarchical power. I'his 
liberty, madame, has three enemies — the clergy, the nobility, 
and the parliament. Ihe clergy does not belong to this cen- 
tury, and was crushed by Talleyrand ; the nobility belongs to all 
centuries, and I think we must put up with it, for there can be 
no monarchy without a nobility — it must, however, be repressed, 
and this can only be done by making it a link of union between 
the people and royalty. Royalty can never coalesce with the 
people, so long as parliaments exist, for the latter keep the 
nobility in hope that the old order of things will be restored. 
I'hen it is necessary, after the annihilation of the clergy, the 
destruction of parliaments, to revive the executive, to regenerate 
royal power, and make it accord with liberty. That, madame, 
is the sum of my politics. If it is that of the king, let him 
adopt it ; if not, let him reject it.” 

“ Count,” said the queen, amazed by the light shed at once 
over the past, present and future by the radiation of the mind 
of Mirabeau, “ I do not know if the king will agree with you, 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


fi4 

but had I the power it would be my course. Tell me then, 
count, what means are to be adopted to attain this course ? I 
listen, I do not say with attention, but with thanks.” 

Mirabeau glanced rapidly at the queen ; his eagle eye 
sounded her very heart, and he saw that if he had not convinced 
her he had at least made an impression on her. 

This triumph over so superior a woman as Marie Antoinette 
flattered in the highest degree Mirabeau’s vanity. 

“ Madame,” said he, “ we have nearly lost Paris ; we yet have 
in the country, however, vast masses disposed to serve us, of 
whom we can make fascines. I advise, madame, that the king 
leave Paris, not France — that he join the army at Rouen, and 
thence publish orders more popular than the Assembly’s decrees; 
then there will be no civil war, for the king will have surpassed 
the revolution.” 

“ But is not this revolution, whether exceeded or followed, a 
thing to be feared ?” asked the queen. 

** Alas, madame ! better than any one else I know something 
must be thrown to it. I have already told the queen that it 
surpasses human power to rebuild the monarchy on the basis 
this revolution has shattered. All France has consented to this 
revolution, from the king to the peasant, either by act or by 
omission. I do not, madame, seek to defend the ancient mo- 
narchy, but to modify and regenerate it ; to establish a form of 
government more or less like that of England, which led that 
country to its apogee of power and glory. After having, as Gil- 
bert tells me, beheld and studied the prison and scaffold of 
Charles I., will not the king be satisfied with a throne like that 
of William III. or George I. ?” 

“ Oh, count,” said the queen, to whom w’hat Mirabeau had 
said recalled with shuddering horror the vision of the castle of 
Taverney, and the design of Guillotin’s instrument, “ restore us 
the monarchy, and you will see that we are not so ungrateful as 
they call us.” 

“Well,” cried Mirabeau, “that, madame, is what I will do ! 
Let the king sustain and the queen encourage me, and here at 
your feet I swear, as a gentleman, to keep the promise I make 
your majesty or die !” 

“ Count, count ! do not forget that not a mere woman, but a 
dynasty of five centuries, hears your oath. Seventy Kings of 
France, from Pharamont to Louis XV., sleep in their tombs, 
and will be dethroned with us when we fall 1” 


THE MONA E CB Y /S SAVED. 


2iS 

“ I know the engagement I take, madame ; it is immense, I 
know, though it is not greater than my will, or stronger than my 
devotion. Let me but be sure of the confidence of my king 
and queen, and I will accept the task.” 

“ If that be all, M. de Mirabeau, I promise you both the one 
and the other.” 

And ih^ queen bowed to Mirabeau with that serene smile 
which stem.'d to conquer every heart. 

Mirabeau saw that the audience was over. 

The pride of the politician was satisfied, but something was 
needed to satisfy the vanity of the noble. 

“ Madame,” said he, with a respectful and bold courtesy, 
“when your august mother, Maria Theresa, admitted one of the 
nobles to her presence, he never left her without having had the 
honour of kissing her hand.” 

He stood erect and waited. 

The queen looked at the chained lion, who asked only to be 
permitted to cast himself at her feet, and with a smile of triumph 
on her lips gave him slowly her beautiful hand, which was white 
as alabaster, and almost as transparent. 

Mirabeau knelt, kissed her hand, and looking up proudly, 
said : 

“ Madame, this kiss has saved the monarchy !” 

He left the room, moved, excited, and joyous, thinking to 
himself, poor man ! that his genius would enable him to main- 
tain and to fulfil the prophecy he had made. 

Mirabeau had commenced the struggle trusting in his own 
powers, not ever dreaming that after so many imprudences and 
three intercepted plots the struggle had become impossible. 

Had Mirabeau — and this would have been more prudent — 
been able to have worked beneath a mask for some time longer, 
it might have been different, but the day after he had been to 
the queen, on entering the Assembly, he saw groups of people 
and heard cries. 

He approached these groups, and listened to the cries. 

They handed little pamphlets about. 

From time to time some one cried : “ The great treachery of 
M. de Mirabeau ! The great treachery of M. de Mirabeau !” 

“ Ah, ah !” said he, drawing a piece of money from his pocket, 
“ methinks this concerns me. My friend,” continued he, to the 
one distributing the pamphlet, and who had several in his 


2i6 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


baskets, which an ass carried quietly wherever he wished him 
to go, ‘‘ how much for ‘The great treachery of M. de Mira- 
beau?” 

The seller looked Mirabeau in the face. “ M. le Comte, I 
give it away for nothing.” And then he added, in a lower tone 
“ And the pamphlet has already reached a hundred thousand.” 

Mirabeau withdrew thoughtfully. 

“ This pamphlet had reached a hundred thousand ! This 
pamphlet they gave for nothing ! This colporteur, who knew 
him ?” 

But without doubt this pamphlet was one of those stupid 
publications of which such numbers appeared at this time. 

Mirabeau cast his eye on the first page and turned pale. 

The first page contained a list of the debts of Mirabeau, and 
strange ! the list was correct. Two hundred and eight thousand 
francs ! 

Below this list was the date of the day when these sums had 
been paid to the different creditors of Mirabeau by the almoner 
of the queen, M. de Fontanges. 

Then came the amount of the sum paid him monthly by the 
court — six thousand francs. 

And lastly, an account of his interview with the queen. 

This was difficult to be understood ; the anonymous pam- 
phleteer had not mistaken a single sum, one might also say he 
had not mistaken a single word. 

What terrible enemy, skilled in his secrets, could follow him 
thus, and through him the monarchy ? 

The colporteur who had spoken to him, who had recognised 
and addressed him as M. le Comte, struck Mirabeau as if he 
had seen him before. He retraced his steps. The ass with his 
basket three parts empty was still there, but the first colporteur 
had disappeared, and another had taken his place. This 
one was wholly unknown to Mirabeau, but he did not follow 
up the distribution with less eagerness. 

It so happened that at this moment Doctor Gilbert, who went 
nearly every day to listen to the debates in the Assembly, above 
all when the debates were likely to be of any importance, passed 
by the place where the colporteur was stationed. 

Pre-oi3Cupied, as he generally was, he wo’Td not, perhaps, 
have stopped, but Mirabeau, with his usual audacity, went 
straight to him, took him by the arm, and led him to the dis- 
tributor of the pamphlets, who did the same to Gilbert as he 


THE MONARCHY IS SA FED, 


217 

had done to the others — that is, he stretched out his hands to- 
wards him, saying : “ ‘ The great treachery of M. de Mirabeau,’ 
citizen ?” 

But at the sight of Gilbert his tongue and arms stopped as if 
paralyzed. Gilbert looked at him in his turn, and letting the 
pamphlet fall with disgust, turned away, saying : “ This is vil- 
lainous work you are at, M. de Beausire !” And taking the arm 
of Mirabeau, he continued his way to the Assembly, which had 
removed from the Episcopal Palace to the Manège. 

“ Do you know this man, then ?” asked Mirabeau. 

“I know him as I know such people,” said Gilbert ; he is 
a gamester — everything ; he is ready as a calumniator, or any- 
thing.” 

“ Ah !” murmured Mirabeau, putting his hand where his 
heart had been, but where there was now only the pocket-book 
containing the money of the château ; and the great orator went 
on his way gloomily. 

“ What ?” said Gilbert ; “ are you so little of a philosopher as 
to let such a little attack as this dash you ?” 

“ I ?” cried Mirabeau. “ Ah, doctor, you do not know me ! 
They say I am bought, when they should simply say I am paid J 
Well, to-morrow I purchase an hotel ; to-morrow I have a 
carriage, horses, servants ; to-morrow I have a cook and well 
covered table. And how do the popularity of yesterday and 
the unpopularity of to-day concern me ? Is there not the 
future? No, doctor; what dashes me is that I have promised 
what I may not probably be able to keep ; these are the faults, 
I had better say treacheries, of the court on my account. I 
have seen the queen, have I not ? She seemed full of con- 
fidence in me. For a moment I dreamed — a mad dream with 
such a woman — for a moment I dreamed, not of being minister 
to the king, as Richelieu was, but let us say better — and the 
policy of the world would not have been wor^e conducted — the 
lover of the queen, like Mazarin. Well, what did she do ? On 
the very day of our interview, after I had left her, I have proof 
that she wrote thus to her agent in Germany, M. de Flachlanden : 
‘ Tell my brother Leopold I am of his opinion — that I make 
use of M. de Mirabeau, but there is nothing serious in my 
relation with him.” 

“ Are you sure ?” asked Gilbert. 

“ Positive. But this is not all : you know what the dis- 
cussion is about to-day in the Chamber ?” 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


2i3 

“ I know it is on a question of war, but I am badly informed 
on the cause of this war.” 

‘‘ Oh, mon Dieu !” said Mirabeau, “ it is very simple. The 
whole of Europe is split into two parties : Austria and Russia 
on one side, England and Prussia on the other, swayed by the 
same hatred — hatred of revolutions. For Russia and Austria 
the manifestation is not difficult — it is their own true opinion ; 
but it requires time for liberal England and philosophic Prussia 
to pass from one pole to the other, and to avow themselves 
what they are in reality — enemies to liberty. For her part, 
England has seen Brabant stretch out her hand to France ; this 
has hastened her decision. Our revolution, my dear doctor, 
is contagious; it is more than a national revolution — it is a 
revolution of mankind. Burke, a pupil of the Jesuits of Saint 
Ouen, a bitter enemy of Pitt, is about to attack France in a 
work which he has been paid for in good gold by Pitt. Eng- 
land will not make war on France. No, she dare not yet; but 
she abandons Belgium to the Emperor Leopo’d, and she is 
going to the end of the world to pick a quarrel with our al^q 
Spain. Louis XVI. made known to the Assembly yesterday 
that he was arming fourteen vessels on this account ; there will 
be a great discussion to-day. To whom does the initiative of 
the war belong ? This is the question. The king has already 
lost the Ministry of the Interior, the king has already lost 
Justice; if he loses War, what will become of him ? On the 
other side, let us frankly, between you and me, doctor, touch 
on what we dare not mention in the Chamber. On the other 
side the king is mistrusted ; the revolution can only be com- 
pleted — and I have contributed to this more than any one — 
the revolution can only now be completed by breaking the 
sword in the hands of the king; of all powers, the most 
dangerous to leave in his hands is that of making war. Well, 
faithful to the promise I have made, I must go and ask them 
to leave him this power. I risk my popularity, my life perhaps, 
in supporting this demand. I am about to ask them to adopt 
a decree which will make the king victorious, triumphant ! 
And now, w'hat has the king done ? He has caused the whole 
formulas of protestation to be fetched from the archives of the 
Parliament, doubtless to issue a secret protestation against the 
Assembly. See the evil, my dear doctor, of doing so many 
things secretly, instead of frankly, openly, publicly ; and learn 
why I wish — I, Mirabeau, do you hear — that they should know 


THE MONARCHY IS SA VED, 


219 


what I am to the queen, to the king, since I am so. You told 
qie that this infamy against me vexed and troubled me — not so, 
doctor, it assists me ; with me, as with the storms, it is 
necessary there should be dark clouds and contrary winds. 
Come, come, doctor I and you shall see a good sitting, I 
promise you !’* 

Mirabeau was not wrong ; his courage was tried as soon as 
he entered the Assembly. Every one cried out Treachery !” 
and one showed him a rope, another a pistol. 

Mirabeau shrugged his shoulders and passed on. 

The cries followed him' to the hall, and seemed to call forth 
new cries. He had scarcely appeared, when a hundred voices 
exclaimed, “ See, see the traitor !” 

Barnave was at the tribune — he was speaking against Mira- 
beaa Mirabeau looked fixedly at him. “ Yes !” said Barnave, 
“ it is you I call a traitor, against you I speak !” 

“ Then,” said Mirabeau, “ if you are speaking about me, 
I’ll take a walk round the Tuileries. I shall be back before 
you’ve done.” 

And with his head high, and a threatening air, he w’alked 
through the midst of the bowlings and imprecations, reached 
the terrace, and descended into the Tuileries. 

A third of the w’ay from the great alley, a young woman, 
holding a sprig of vervain in her hand, was collecting a circle 
round her. A place on her left was empty; Mirabeau took a 
chair and sat himself down. 

The half of those who surrounded her got up and left. Mira- 
beau watched them go and smiled. The young woman gave 
him her hand. 

‘‘ Ah ! baronne,” said he, ** you are not afraid of catching the 
plague ?” 

“ My dear count,” replied the young woman, “ they say you 
have left our side. I draw you to us.’' 

Mirabeau smiled, and talked three quarters of an hour with 
the young woman, who w'as no other than Anne Louise 
Germaine Necker, Baronne de Staël. 

At the end of that time, taking out his watch, “ Ah, baronne!” 
said he, “ I ask your pardon ; Barnave was speaking against me 
— he had spoken an hour w'hen I left the Assembly, and for 
three quarters of an hour I have had the pleasure of conversing 
W'ith you; my accuser, consequently, has been talking for 


THE COUNTESS DE CITA P N Y, 


220 

nearly tT:o hours — his discourse ought to be near its end 
I must answer him.” 

“ Go !” said the baronne, “ answer him, and wirh good 
courage.” 

“ Give me, madame, this sprig of vervain ; it shall serve me 
as a talisman.” 

“ Take care, my dear count, vervain is worn at funerals.” 

“ Give it me, nevertheless ; it is good to be crowned as a 
martyr when one descends into the circle.” 

“ The fact is,” said Madame de Staël, “ it is impossible to be 
more stupid than the Assembly yesterday was.” 

“ Ah, baronne !” said Mirabeau, “ why do you put the date ?” 

And as he took the sprig of vervain from her hands, which she 
gave him without doubt for this last speech, Mirabeau saluted 
her gallantly, mounted the steps which conducted to the terrace, 
and regained the Assembly. 

Barnave descended from the tribune in the midst of acclama- 
tion which filled the salle : he had pronounced a discourse of 
that kind which pleases all parties. 

Mirabeau was scarcely in the tribune before a complete hurri- 
cane of cries and imprecations was showered upon him. 

But, raising his powerful hand, and profiting by one of those 
intervals of silence which there always are in storms and émeutes : 

“ I know w^ell,” said he, “ that it is but a step from the Capitol 
to the Tarpeinn rock.” 

Such is the majesty of genius, that this single sentence made 
the most irritated silent. 

From the moment when Mirabeau had obtained silence, his 
victory was half gained. He demanded that the initiative of the 
war should be given to the king ; this was asking too much — they 
refused. Then the struggle commenced on the amendments. 
The principal motion had been negatived. It was necessary to 
recover himself by partial changes. He ascended the tribune 
five times. 

Barnave had spoken two hours ; during three hours Mirabeau 
spoke, and at length obtained the following ; 

That the king had the right to make the preparations and direct 
the forces as he washed ; that he should propose w^ar to the Assem- 
bly, and the latter should do nothing until sanctioned by the king. 

At the end of the sitting Mirabeau escaped being cut in pieces. 

Barnave was carried in triumph by the people. 


THE ELIXIR V1TÆ. 


221 


Poor Barnave ! the day is not distant when you shall hear the 
cries in your turn : “ Great treachery of M. Barnave T 


CHAPTER XXI 

THE ELIXIR VITÆ. 

Mirabeau left the Assembly ; w^hen he found himself in the face 
of danger, the strong athlete thought of neither the peril nor his 
strength. 

When he reached home, he laid himself down on cushions in 
the midst of flowers. 

Mirabeau had tw'o passions : women and flowers. 

Since the commencement of the session his health had altered 
perceptibly ; although of a vigorous temy erament, he had suffered 
so much, both physically and morally, from his persecutions and 
imprisonments, that he was never in a perfect state of health. 

This time it seemed to be something more than ordinary, and 
he only feebly resisted his valet, who spoke of going for a physi- 
cian. when Doctor Gilbert rang and was immediately admitted. 

Mirabeau gave his hand to the doctor, and drew him down on 
to the cushions where he lay, in the midst of flowers. 

So ! my dear count,” said Gilbert, “ I thought I would not go 
home without congratulating you : you promised me a victory ; 
you have succeeded better than that — you gained a triumph.” 

“ Yes, but you see it is a triumph like that of Pyrrhus — 
another such victory as that and I am lost 1” 

Gilbert looked at Mirabeau. 

“ In fine,” said he “ you are ill.” 

Mirabeau shrugged his shoulders. 

“ That is to say, in doing what I have done, any one else but 
me would have died a hundred times. I have two secretaries : 
they are always at work, and are ill ; Pelline, above all, who has 
to copy my manuscripts — and he is the only one who can read 
and understand my illegible scrawl — has been in bed these three 
dnys. Doctor, tell me, then, I do not say something that will 
make me live, but something that will give me strength as long 
as I live.” 

“What do you want?” said Gilbert, after feeling his pulse; 
“ for an organisation like yours there is no advice to give — advise 


232 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


repose to a man who puts all his strength into motion, temperance 
to a genius which glories in excess ! You have made a necessity 
of flowers, and their absence makes you suffer more than their 
presence, and yet they throw out oxygen in the day and carbonic 
acid gas at night. Should I tell you to treat the. women as the 
flowers, and keep away from them, especially at night, you would 
tell me you would rather die. Live, then, my dear count, as you 
have lived, only contrive to have flowers without any peifume, 
and amours without any passion.” 

“ In this last particular, my dear doctor, you are admirably 
served. Amours of passion have succeeded too poorly for me to 
commence any again. I'hree years of imprisonment, a condem- 
nation to death, and the suicide of the woman I loved, and that 
too for another, have cured me of these kind of amours. For a 
moment, I have told you, I dreamt something great : I had 
dreamt of the alliance of Elizabeth and Essex, of Anne of Austria 
and Mazarin, of Catharine the Second and Potemkin ; but it was 
a dream. I have not again seen the woman for whom I struggle, 
and probably never shall. Believe me, Gilbert, there is no greater 
burden than to feel that on us depends the success of great pro- 
jects, the prosperity of a kingdom, the triumph of its friends, 
the abasement of its enemies, and that by an unfortunate roll of 
the dice, by a caprice of fate, all may escape us ! Oh ! how the 
follies of my youth make me expiate them as they will expiate 
themselves ! But why do they defy me ! But have I not on 
two or three occasions been completely for them, and for them 
to the end ? Was I not for the absolute right of veto when M. 
Necker even was only for the suspending veto? Was I not op- 
posed to the 4th of August, a night in which I took no part, 
when the noblesse were deprived of their privileges ? Did Î 
not protest against the declaration of the rights of man ? — Not 
because I did not believe in it, but because I thought the day 
for it had not arrived. To-day, to-day indeed, have I not 
served them more than they could have hoped ? Have I not 
obtained for them, at the expense of honour, popularity, and 
life, more than any man, be he minister or prince, could have 
gained? And when I think — reflect wel’, thou great philo- 
sopher, on what I am going to tell you, for the fall of the 
monarchy perhaps lurks in this — an.l when I think that I, who 
ought to esteem it a great favour, so great that I have only been 
allowed to do so once, have seen the queen ; when I remember 
that my father died through the taking of the Bastile, and that 


THE ELIXIR VITÆ. 


223 


if decency had not forbid me pointing this out the day after the 
day on which Lafayette was named General of the National 
Guard, and Bailly Mayor of Paris, that I should have been 
named mayor in the place of Bailly ! — oh ! then things changed: 
the king found it necessary to enter into connection with me ; I 
inspired him with other ideas ; I obtained his confidence, and I 
brought him, before the evil had become too great, to pursue 
decisive measures ; instead of a simple deputy, a man mistrusted 
feared, hated, they have driven me from the king, calumniated 
me with the queen ! Do you believe one thing, doctor? — when 
she saw me at Saint Cloud she turned pale ! Ah ! it is quite 
simple ; they made her believe that it was I who caused the 5th 
and 6th of O tober. During this year I have done all they 
have tempted me to do ; and to-day, ah ! to-day, for the health 
of the monarchy as well as my own, I have much fear lest it be 
too late.” 

And Mirabeau, with an expression of suppressed pain over his 
whole countenance, seized with his hand the flesh of his breast 
above his stomach. 

“ Are you in pain, count ?” asked Gilbert. 

“ As one of the damned ! There are days, on my honour, 
when what they do to my character with calumny I believe they 
do to my body with arsenic ! Do you believe in the poisons of 
Borgia, in the aqua tofana of Pérouse, doctor ?” asked Mirabeau 
smiling. 

“ No ! but I believe the flame that burns in this blazing lamp 
so ardent as to crack the glass.” 

Gilbert drew from his pocket a small crystal bottle, containing, 
perhaps, two teaspoonfuls of a green liquid. 

“ Here, count,” said he, “ we will try an experiment.” 

“ What ?” said Mirabeau, looking at the bottle with curiosity. 

“ One of my friends, whom I should like to see yours too, 
and who is very skilled in the natural sciences — nay, even pre- 
tends to a knowledge of the occult ones as well— has given me 
the recipe of a beverage which is almost like the elixir vitae. 
Often when I am troubled with those sad thoughts which lead 
our neighbours in England 10 melancholy, spleen, and even 
death, I take a few drops of this liquid, and I ought to tell you 
that the effect has always been salutary and prompt. Will vou 
taste a little in your turn ?” 

“ From your hands, doctor, I would receive anything, even 


224 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


the hemlock, much more the elixir of life. Is there any pre- 
paration, or must one drink it pure ?” 

“ No ; for this liquid in reality possesses great power. Order 
your valet to bring you a few drops of brandy or spirits of wine 
in a cup.” 

“ Diable ! brandy or spirits of wine ! so you want to dilute 
your potion ? — it must be a fire-liquid. I do not know a man 
who could drink it, unless Prometheus came on earth again. I 
will tell you, however, that I do not believe my servant will find 
six drops of brandy in the whole house. I am not like Pitt, 
and I do not seek my eloquence in the bottle.” 

The servant, however, returned a few moments afterwards 
with a cup holding the five or six drops of brandy necessary. 

Gilbert added to the brandy an equal quantity of the liquid 
in the phial ; when the two liquids combined, the mixture became 
the colour of absinthe, and Mirabeau, seizing the cup, drank 
what it contained. 

“ Morbleu ! doctor,” said he to Gilbert, “ you did well to 
warn me that your drug was strong — it seemed literally like a 
draught of lightning.” 

Gilbert smiled, and seemed to await its effects with con- 
fidence. 

Mirabeau remained for an instant as if burnt up by jets ot 
flame, his head laid on his chest, and his hand holding his 
stomach ; but all at once, raising his head : “Ah ! doctor,” said 
he, “that is indeed an elixir vitæ you have given me to drink.” 

Then he rose, his respiration clear, his forehead bright, his 
arms extended. 

“ Overset the monarchy now,” said he ; “I feel I am myself 
able to sustain it.” 

Gilbert smiled. 

“You feel better, then?” he asked. 

“ Doctor,” said Mirabeau, “ tell me where they sell this liquid, 
and if I must pay for each drop with a diamond as large — must 
I renounce every luxury but that of strength and life — I tell you 
I will have that liquid flame, and then — and then I shall look 
on myself as invincible.” 

“ Count,” said Gilbert, “ promise me never to take this 
liquid more than twice a week, and to address yourself only to me 
to provide you with more, and this phial is yours.” 

“ Give it to me,” said Mirabeau, “ and I promise you all you 
wish.” 


THE ELIXIR V2TÆ. 


225 

“There,” said Gilbert; “but now this is not all. You are 
going to have horses and a carriage, are you not ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, live in the country. These flowers that vitiate the air 
of a chamber make the air of a garden pure. The drive which 
you will have to Paris every day will do you much good. Chaose, 
if possible, a residence near a height, in a wood, or near a river 
— Bellevue, St. Germain, or Argenteiiil.” 

“ Argenteuil !” replied Mirabeau ; “ I have just sent a servant 
to take a house there. Teisch, did you not say you had found 
something there that would suit me ?” 

“ Yes, M. le Comte,” replied the valet, who had assisted at 
the cure that Gilbert had effected, “ yes, a charming house, 
which my compatriot Fritz mentioned to me. He has inhabited 
it, it seems, with his master, who is a foreign banker. It 
empty, and M. le Comte can have it when he will.” 

“ Whereabouts is the house ?” 

“ Beyond Argenteuil ; it is called the château of the Marais 

“ Oh ! I know it,” said Mirabeau ; “ very well, Teisch. When 
my father drove me from him with his curse, and beatings with 

his cane, you know, doctor, my father lived at Av- 

genteuil ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, I said when my father drove me from him, I used 
often to go and promenade round the exterior walls of this bea»A- 
tiful habitation, and to say like Horace, pardon me if the quo- 
tation is false, ‘ O rus quando te aspiciam V ” 

“ Then, my dear count, the moment has come when you can 
realize your dream. Go, visit the chateau of the Marais — 
transport your family there — the sooner the better.” 

Mirabeau reflected an instant, and then, turning himself to- 
wards Gilbert : “ It is your duty, doctor,” said he, “ to watch over 
the patient you have restored to health : it is only five o’clock, 
and we are in the long days of the year ; it is very fine, so let us 
get into a carriage and go to Argenteuil.” 

“ Let it be so,” said Gilbert ; “ when one undertakes to cure 
a health so valuable as yours, one ought to take every care. 
Come, let us see your future country house.” 

Mirabeau had not kept house as yet, and therefore kept no 
carriage. A servant went to fetch a hackney coach. 

Why had Mirabeau chosen Argenteuil ? V/as it as he had just 

«5 


235 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


told the doctor, that certain souvenirs of his life attached him to 
this little town ? 

It was at Argenteuil that his father, the Marquis de Mirabeau, 
died on the nth of July, 1789, as became a true gentleman to 
die who would not assist at the taking of the Bastile. 

At the foot of the bridge of Argenteuil Mirabeau directed 
the carriage to stop. 

Are we there ?” asked the doctor. 

“ Yes and no : we are not quite at the château of the Marais, 
which is a quarter of a league beyond Argenteuil. But what 
we are making to-day, doctor, I had forgotten to tell you, is not 
a simple visit, but a pilgrimage — a pilgrimage to three stations.” 

“ A pilgrimage !” said Gilbert, smiling, “ and to what saint ?” 

“ To Saint Riquetté, my dear doctor, a saint whom you do 
not know, but one whom men have canonized. It is certain 
that here is buried Saint Riquetté, Marquis de Mirabeau, friend 
of man, put to death li’^e a martyr by the agitations and de- 
baucheries of his unworthy son, Honoré Gabriel Victor Riquetté, 
Comte de Mirabeau.” 

“ Ah ! it is true,” said the doctor ; it was at Argenteuil that 
your father died. Pardon me, my dear count, that I had for- 
gotten that. And where did your father live ?’’ 

At the very moment Gilbert put this question, Mirabeau 
stopped before the gate of a house situated on the quay, in front 
of the river, from which it was separated by a lawn of perhaps 
some three hundred paces and a cluster of trees. 

An enormous dog, of the race of those of the Pyrenees, on 
perceiving a man stop before the gate, darted out and growled, 
and thrusting his head between the bars, tried to catch hold of 
Mirabeau’s flesh, or at least the lapel of his coat. 

“ Pardieu, doctor,” said he, “ nothing is changed, and they 
receive me here as if my father were living.” 

While he spoke, a young man appeared on the steps, silenced 
the dog, called it to him, and advanced towards the strangers. 

“ Pardon, gentlemen,” said he ; “ many promenaders stop 
before this house, which was inhabited by the Marquis de 
Mirabeau, and as poor Cartouche does not understand the 
historic interest which is attached to the house of his humble 
masters, he growls eternally. To your kennel. Cartouche 1” 

The young man made a threatening gesture, and the dog 
went, still growling, and hid himself in his kennel, through whose 


THE ELIXIR V1TÆ, 22 ? 

Open bars there soon passed two paws, on which he leant his 
head. 

During this time Mirabeau and Gilbert exchanged a look. 

“ Gentlemen,” exclaimed the young man, “ there is nothing 
now behind this gate but a host ready to open it and receive you 
if your curiosity is not satisfied with the exterior.” 

Gilbert nudged Mirabeau as a sign that he would willingly visit 
the interior of the mansion. Mirabeau understood him ; more- 
over, his wishes coincided with those of Gilbert. 

“ Monsieur,” said he, “ you have fathomed our thoughts. 
We knew that this house had been inhabited by the ‘ Friend of 
Mankind,’ and we were curious to visit it.” 

“And your curiosity will redouble, gentlemen,” said the 
young man, “ when you know that two or three times, while the 
father lived here, it was honoured by the presence of his 
illustrious son, who, it is said, was not always received as he 
deserved to be, and as we would receive him if he should take 
it into his head ever to have the same curiosity as yourselves.” 
And bowing, the young man opened the gate to the two visitors, 
and walked before them. 

But Cartouche did not seem disposed to let them thus enjoy 
the hospitality which had been offered to them ; he darted again 
out of his kennel, growling horribly. 

The young man threw himself betwixt the dog and that one 
of his guests against whom the animal seemed principally 
irritated. 

But Mirabeau drew the young man aside with his hand. 

“ Monsieur,” said he, “ both dogs and men have growled at 
me ; men have bit me sometimes, dogs never. They say that 
the human eye is all powerful in its influence on animals. Let 
me, I beg, make an experiment.” 

“ Monsieur,” said the young man, quickly, “ Cartouche is bad 
tempered. I must beg you to be very careful.” . 

“Never mind, monsieur,” Mirabeau replied, “I have to do 
with worse subjects than he is, every day, and to-day, even, with 
one quite as savage.” 

“Yes, but to this savage,” said Gilbert, “you could talk, and 
no one will deny the power of your eloquence.” 

“ Doctor, I believe you are an adept at magnetism.” 

“ Without doubt ; what then ?” 

“ Then you ought to know the power of the eye. Let me 
magnetize Cartouche.” 


15— a 


22S 


THE COUNTESS DE CIIARNY. 


“ Do SO,” said Gilbert. 

“ Oh, monsieur !” said the young man, “do not run any ris!:.* 

“ Not the slightest,” answered Mirabeau. 

The young man bowed his consent, and drew off to the left, 
while Gilbert went to the right, as do the witnesses of a duel. 

The young man ascended two or three of the steps leading to 
the door, and held himself ready to stop Cartouche, if the word 
and eye of the unknown should prove not to be sufficient under 
the circumstances. 

The dog turned its head to the right and lett, as if to see 
whether he against whom it seemed to have an implacable 
hatred was really without help. Then, seeing him without 
arms and assistance, it came slowly out of its kennel, more like 
a serpent than a quadruped, and all at once sprang forward, 
and at the first bound cleared one-third of the distance between 
its adversary and itself. 

Mirabeau crossed his arms, and with that look which made 
him the Jupiter Tonans of the tribune, fixed his eye upon the 
animal. 

At the same time all the electricity that his body seemed 
capable of containing mounted to his face. His hair stood up 
like the mane of a lien, and if it had been midnight instead of 
day, without doubt each one of his hairs would have shown a 
feeble electrical light The dog stopped short and looked at 
him. Mirabeau stooped, and taking a handful of sand, threw 
it in its face. The dog growled, and took another bound, which 
brought it within three or four paces of its antagonist ; but now 
it was the latter that advanced. 

The animal remained a moment immovable as the stone dog 
of the chasseur e'ephale; but made uneasy by the approach of 
Mirabeau, it seemed to hesitate between fear jmd rage, and 
threatening with its teeth and eyes, retreated backwards. At 
last, Mirabeau raised his arms with a threatening gesture, and 
tlie dog, conquered and trembling in every limb, recoiled, and 
turning '•ound, hastily entered its kennel 

Mirabeau joyously turned round. 

“Ah ! doctor,” said he, “ old M. de Mirabeau was right when 
he declared that dogs were candidates for humanity. You have 
feen this cowardly fellow insolent, now you see him servile as a 
man !” 

And then, with a tone of command, he said : “ Cartouche, 
come here 1” 


THE ELIXIR VITÆ. 


229 


The dog hesitated, but with a gesture of impatience, pushed 
its head a second time out of the kennel, fixed its eyes upcn 
Mirabeau, and bounded across the space separating them, and 
arrived at the feet of its conqueror, raised its head slowly and 
timidly, and with its tongue licked Mirabeau’s hand. 

“ Good dog !” said he, “ to your kennel !” 

He made a gesture, and the dog went and laid himself down. 

Then, turning to Gilbert, while the young man, half frozen 
with fear and mute witb astonishment, stood on the steps : 

“ Do you know what I was thinking of, my dear doctor,” said 
he, “ as I was acting this folly which you have just witnessed ?” 

“ No ; but tell me. You did not do it by simple bravado !” 

“ I thought of the famous night of the 5th of October. 
Doctor ! doctor ! I would give the life left me, if the king, 
Louis XVL, had seen this dog dart upon me, return to the 
kennel, and then come and lick my hand.” 

I'hen he added to the young man : “ You will pardon me, 
monsieur, I hope, for having so humiliated Cartouche ? Come, 
let us see the house of the ‘ Friend of Mankind,’ since you are 
so kind as to show it us.” 

The young m.an drew aside to let Mirabeau pass, who for 
that matter did not seem to require a guide, but appeared to 
know the house as well as if he had been there before. 

Without stopping on the ground-floor, he mounted the stair- 
case quickly, and with his usual dominating habit, Mirabeau, 
from a mere spectator, became an actor — from a simple visitor, 
master of the house. Gilbert follow^ed him. 

During this time the young man w’ent to call his father, a 
man of fifty or five-and-fifty, and his two sisters, young girls of 
fifteen to eighteen, to tell them what a strange guest they were 
about to receive. 

While he was narrating the history of the taming of the dog, 
Mirabeau occupied himself with showing Gilbert the working 
room, chamber and saloon of the late Marquis de Mirabeau ; 
and each room made him tell anecdote after anecdote in that 
pleasing manner which belonged especially to him. 

The proprietor and his family listened to this eloquent cice- 
rone, who told them the history of their own house, with open 
ears. 

The rooms above having been visited, and seven o’clock 
ringing from the church-tower of Argenteuil, Mirabeau, who 
doubtless feared to be too late to accomplish his object, pressed 


230 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


Gilbert to descend, setting the example by jumping down the 
first four steps. 

“ Monsieur,” said the proprietor of the house, “ you, who 
know so much of the history of M. de Mirabeau and his illus 
trious son, may be able to relate of these first four steps a 
story which will be equally as curious as those you have already 
narrated.” 

“ I intended that to have remained untold,” said Mirabeau. 

And why so, count ?” asked Gilbert. 

** I’ faith, you shall judge. When Mirabeau left the dun- 
geons of Vincennes, where he had been eighteen months, he 
came to see his father. There were two reasons why Mirabeau 
was badly received in the paternal mansion ; firstly, he left 
Vincennes against his father’s wishes, and secondly, he came 
to ask for money. It happened that the marquis was 
engaged in giving the last touch to a philosophical work, and 
raising his eyes, he saw his son, and at the first words about 
money which he pronounced, he darted on his son with his 
cane. The count knew his father well, and yet he thought 
that his age, thirty-seven, would save him from the threatened 
ccrreccion. Thé count soon found he was wrong, as the blows 
showered down upon him. * 

“ What ! blows with the cane ?” asked Gilbert. 

“ Yes, and good heavy blows, too — not such as those which 
are administered at the Comédie Française in Molière’s plays.” 

“ And what did the Count de Mirabeau do ?” asked Gilbert 

‘‘ Parbleu ! he did what Horace did in his first battle, he fled. 
Unfortunately, he had not, like Horace, a shield to’throw away, 
so he ran at once, and jumped down the first four steps, as I 
did but just now, but a little quicker, perhaps. Arrived there, 
he turned about, and raising his walking-stick in his turn, ‘Stop, 
sir,’ said he, ‘ we are no longer relations !’ It was but a poor 
reply — ah, what a pity the seneschal is dead ; I could have 
written out that for him. ‘ Mirabeau,’ continued the narrator, 
‘ was too good a strategist not to make his retreat at once. He 
ran down the rest of the steps almost as fast as he had de- 
scended the first four, and, to his great grief, never entered the 
house again. This Count de Mirabeau was a beggarly fellow, 
don’t you think so, doctor ?” 

“ Oh, monsieur!” said the young man, approaching Mirabeau, 
with clasped hands, as if he asked pardon of his guest for enter* 
taining a different opinion, “ rather say a very great man 1” 


THE ELIXIR VITÆ, 


S3» 

Mirabe-au looked the young man in the face. 

“ Ah, ah !” said he, “ then there are people who do think so 
of the Count de Mirabeau ?” 

“ Yes, sir,” said the young man, “ and at the risk of displeas- 
ing YOU, I amongst the first.” 

“Oh!” replied Mirabeau, smiling, “you must not say so 
so loudly in this house, or the walls may fall in upon you.” 

And then, saluting the old man and the two girls respect- 
fully, he passed through the garden, making a friendly sign to 
Cartouche. 

Gilbert followed Mirabeau, who ordered the coachman to 
drive into the town and pull up opposite the church. 

At the corner of the first street he stopped the carriage, and 
drawing a card from his pocket : “ Teisch,” said he to his ser- 
vant, “ take this card to the young man, who is not aware that 
I am M. de Mirabeau.” 

Then with a sigh : “Ah ! doctor,” said he, “ there is one who 
has not )et read ‘ The Great Treachery of M. de Mirabeau.’” 

I'eisch returned. He was followed by the young man. “ Oh ! 
M. le Comte,” said the latter, with an accent of great admira- 
tion, “allow me the honour which you have already permitted 
Cartouche, of kis ing your hand.” 

Mirabeau opened both his arms, and pressed the young rran 
to his breast. 

“ M. le Comte,” said he, “ I am called Mormais : if ever you 
w^ant any one that is ready to die for you, think of me.” 

Tears came to the eyes of Mirabeau. “ Doctor,” said he, 
“ such are the men who will succeed us. I think, on my honour, 
they will be better than us. ” 

The carriage stopped opposite the church. 

“ I have told you that I have never been at Argenteuil since 
my father struck me : I was mistaken ; I was here when I 
placed his body in this church.” 

And Mirabeau descended from the carriage, and, hat in hand, 
with slow and solemn step entered into the church. 

Gilbert followed a few paces after him. He saw Mirabeau 
traverse all the church, and near the altar of tlie Virgin go be- 
hind a column whose Roman capital seemed to denote that it 
was of the twelfth centur)\ 

Bending his head, he fixed his eyes upon a black tablet in the 
centre of the chapel 


tzt THE COUNTESS DE CIIARNY, 

I'hs doctor’s eyes followed those of Mirabeau and read the 
following inscription : 

Here rests 

Françoise de Castellane, Marquise de Mirabeau, 

A model of purity and virtue ; a happy wdfe 
And happy mother. 

She was born in Dauphiné in i68i, and died at Paris, in 1769, 

First buried at Saint Surplice, 

And then transported here to be re-united with her worthy son in the 
same tomb. 

Victor Riquette, Marquis de Mirabeau, 

Surnamed the “ Friend of Men,” 

Born at Pertuis, in Provence, 4th of October, 1715» 

Died at Argenteuil, the nth July, 1789. 

Pray for their souls. 

The influence of death is so powerful, that Gilbert bent his 
head, and sought in his memory for a prayer, in order to obey 
the invitation which the sepulchre addressed to every Christian 
beholder. 

But if Gilbert had ever in his fancy known the language of 
humility and faith, doubt and philosophy had written in its 
place sophisms and paradoxes. 

Finding his heart hard and his lips dumb, he raised his eyes 
and saw two tears coursing down the cheeks of Mirabeau. 

These two tears of Mirabeau seemed strange to Gilbert — he 
went and took him by the hand. 

Mirabeau understood him. 

The tears wept by Mirabeau in remembrance of the father 
who had imprisoned and tortured him would seem incompre- 
hensible or trivial. 

He would not, consequently, express the true cause of his 
sensibility to Gilbert 

“ This Françoise de Castellane, mother of my father, was a 
worthy woman,” said he. “ When all the world declared me 
hideous, she was satisfied to find me ugly. When all the world 
hated me so, she loved me still. But what she loved was his 
son ! and so, you see, my dear Gilbert, I have united them. 
Who will bury me with them? By whose bones will mine be 
laid ? I have not even a dog to love me ! ” And he 
laughed bitterly. 

“Monsieur,” said a voice, with something of that reproa'-’- 


THE ELIXIR V1TÆ. 


233 


which only belongs to devotees, “people never laugh in a 
church !” 

“ Monsieur,” he replied with unusual sweetness, “are you the 
priest that serves this chapel ?” 

“ Yes, — what would you ?” 

“ Have you many poor in your parish ?” 

“ More than there are people to give.” 

“ You know some charitable hearts, however — some philan- 
thropists ?” 

The priest began to laugh. 

“ Monsieur,” observed Mirabeau, “ I thought you had done 
me the honour of informing me that no one laughed in 
churches.” 

“ Monsieur,” said the priest, half-angrily, “ has the pretension 
to give me a lesson !” 

“ No, monsieur, I only wished to show you that the people 
who think it their duty to correct others are not so rare as you 
thought. Now, monsieur, I am going in all probability to 
inhabit the Château Marais. Well, every man wanting work 
shall find it there, and good pay ; every hungry old man shall 
there find food ; every sick man, whatever his politics, whatever 
his religion, shall there meet with assistance ; and, mons eur, to 
commence to day, I beg your acceptance, for charitable uses, 
of a thousand francs per month.” 

And tearing a leaf from his pocket-book, he wrote with a pencil : 

“ Good for the sum of twelve thousand francs, for which M. 
le Curé of Argenteuil can draw on me, being one thousand 
francs per month, to be employed by him in good works, to 
commence from the day I take possession of the Château 
Marais. 

“ Written in the church of the Marais, and signed on the 
altar of the Virgin, 

“ Mirabeau, Senior.” 

Mirabeau wrote this letter of credit and signed it on the 
altar. V/ritten and oigned, he gave it to the curé, stupefied be- 
fore ne saw the signature, more so afterwards. 

Ha then left the church, making a sign to Doctor Gilbert to 
follow. The carnage followed the principal street to the end ; 
then it left Argenteuil and turned into the road leading to Besons. 
It had not gone a hundred yards before Mirabeau descried 


234 


THE COUATESS DE CHAD AV. 


through the trees of the park the pointed gables of the château 
and its dependencies. This was Marais. 

Five minutes afterwards, Teisch rang the bell at the gate of 
the château. 

Mirabeau, as we have already said, knew it of old, but he had 
never had the opportunity of examining it so closely as he did 
now. The gate opened, and he found himself in the first court, 
which was nearly square. To the right was a place inhabited 
by the gardener, to the left was a similar lodge. 

Heliotropes and fuchsias were climbing about the windows, 
and a bed of lilies, cactus, and narcissus spread the whole length 
of this court. It seemed to be covered by a carpet worthy of 
being wove by the hand of Penelope. 

In looking at the lodges, lost almost amongst the roses 
and other flowers, Mirabeau uttered a cry of joy. 

“ Oh !” said he to the gardener, “ is this little place to let or 
sell ?” 

“ Without doubt, monsieur,” he replied, “ since it belongs to 
the château, which is either to be let or sold. It is let just now, 
but as there is no lease, if monsieur takes the château it will be 
easy to arrange the matter.” 

“ And who is the inhabitant ?” asked Mirabeau. “A lady.” 

“ Young ?” “ Of thirty or so.” 

“ Beautiful ?” “Very beautiful.” 

“ Well,” said Mirabeau, “ we will see : a beautiful neighbour 
is never in the way. Let me see the château, mon ami.” 

The gardener went before Mirabeau, crossed a bridge which 
separated the first court from the second, and which was built 
over a small river, and then stopped. 

“ If monsieur,” said he, “ should not wish to disturb the lady 
in the pavilion, it will be very easy, as this river separates the 
garden round the pavilion from the rest of the park of the 
château, and thus she would be by herself and monsieur alone too.” 

“ Good, good !” said Mirabeau ; “ and the château is here ?” 

And he slowly ascended the five steps leading to it. 

The gardener opened the principal door. 

This door opened into a vestibule in stucco, with niches con- 
taining statues and vases, on columns, according to the fashion 
of the time. 

A door at the end of this vestibule, and opposite the entrance 
door, led into a garden. 

To the right were the billiard and dining-rooms. 


7HE ELIXIR VITÆ, 


23S 


To the fefV two saloons, a large and a small one. 

This first arrangement pleased Mirabeau, who otherwise 
seemed impatient and uncomfortable. They passed on to the 
first floor. It consisted of a great saloon, admirably adapted 
for study, and three or four bed-chambers. The windows of 
the saloon and the chambers were shut. Mirabeau w^ent and 
opened one of them himself. The gardener w’ould have opened 
the others ; but Mirabeau made a sign with his hand, and the 
gardener stopped. 

Just below the window which Mirabeau had opened, at the 
foot of an immense weeping willow, sat a woman reading, while 
a child of some five or six years played among the flowers. 

Mirabeau understood at once that this was the lady of the 
pavilion. It was impossible to be dressed more gracefully and 
elegantly than this lady. Her hands were small and long, her 
nails beautiful. 

The child, dressed entirely in white satin, w'ore a strange 
mixture — but sufficiently common at that time — hat à la Henri 
Quatre, with one of those three-coloured bindings which were 
called national ribbons. 

Such was the costume that the young dauphin wore, the last 
time he had appeared on the balcony of the Tuileries with his 
mother. 

The sign made by Mirabeau expressed his wish not to disturb 
the fair reader. 

It w^as the lady of the Pavilion aux Fleurs ; it was indeed the 
queen of the garden of lilies, cactus, and narcissus ; it was in- 
deed the beautiful neighbour that chance had given to the 
voluptuous Mirabeau. 

Immovable as a statue, he watched this charming creature for 
some time, ignorant as she was of the ardent gaze fixed on her. 
But whether by accident, or some magnetic influence, she left off 
reading and looked up to the window. 

She perceived Mirabeau, uttered a slight cry of surprise, 
called her child, and taking him by the hand, walked off, but 
not without turning her head two or three times, and disap- 
peared amongst the trees, between the openings of which 
Mirabeau w^atched her appear from time to time, for her white 
dress was easily distinguished in the twilight, which had already 
commenced. 

To the beautiful unknown’s cry of surprise Mirabeau answered 
by one of astonishment. 


THE COUNTESS DR CH ARN Y, 


235 

This woman had not only the royal step, but as her lace veil 
flew aside, her features seemed those of Marie Antoinette. 

The child increased the resemblance ; he was just Û e age of 
the second son of the queen. The gait, the countenance, the 
least movement of the queen, had remained so firmly fixed in 
the mind of Mirabeau, ever since his first and last interview, 
that he believed he should have been able to have recognized 
her if she had come surrounded by a cloud similar to that which 
encircled Venus when she visited her son Æneas, near Carthage. 

How strange that in the park of the house Mirabeau was 
about to rent, there should be a woman who, if she were not the 
queen, was so nearly her living portrait ! 

Next day Mirabeau bought the château. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE LODGE IN THE RUE PLÂTRIÈRE. 

We shall now introduce the reader to the masonic lodge in the 
Rue Plâtrière. 

A low door was surmounted by three letters in red chalk, which 
doubtless indicated the place of a meeting, and which before 
morning will be effaced. 

These three letters are L. P. D. 

The low door seems an alley-way : a few steps are descended, 
and a dark passage threaded. 

Certainly, the second indication would confirm the first, for 
after having looked at the three letters. Farmer Billot descended 
the steps, counting them as he went, and at last stepped from the 
eighth ; he then went boldly down the alley. 

At the extremity of this alley burned a pale light, before 
which sat a man pretending to read a paper. 

Billot advanced, and as he did so, the man arose, and with 
one finger pressed on his chest, waited for him to speak. 

Billot made the same answer, and then placed his finger on 
his lip. 

This was probably the passport expected by the mysterious 
porter, who at once opened a perfectly invisible door, and when 
it was shut, showed Billot a stairway with narrow, coarse steps 
leading yet farther below the ground 


TUE LODGE IN TUE EUE FLA TRI ERE, 


237 


Billot entered, and the door rapidly but silently closed be- 
hind him. 

On this occasion the farmer counted seventeen steps, and 
when he had reached the eighteenth, in spite of the dumbness 
to which he seemed to have condemned himself, he said, 
“ Good ! here I am.” 

A curtain hung a few steps before the door, and Billot, going 
straight to it, lifted it up and found himself in a vast circular 
hall, in which some fifty persons were already collected. The 
walls were hung with red and white curtains, on which were 
worked the square and compass and level. A platform, which 
was ascended by four steps, was prepared for the orators and 
recipiendaries, and on this platform, in the part nearest the wall, 
was a solitary desk and chair for the president. 

In a few moments the hall was so filled as to make motion 
impossible. The crowd was composed of men of every rank 
and condition, from the peasant to the prince, who came one 
by one, as Billot had done, and who, without knowing each 
other, took their places as chance dictated or according to their 
sympathies. 

Each of these men bore under his coat his ovat, the apron of 
the craft, if he was a simple mason, or if he was one of the 
illuminati also, both the apron and the scarf of the higher 
order. 

A single lamp hung from the roof cast a circle of light around, 
but not sufficient to render visible those who wished to remain 
unknown. 

Three men alone did not wear the scarf of the illuminati, but 
only the masonic apron. 

One was Billot, the other a young man scarcely twenty, and 
the third a man about forty-five, who from his manners ap- 
peared to belong to the higher classes of society. 

A few seconds after the last had entered, no more attention 
being paid to him than to the simplest member of the associa- 
tion, a masked door was opened, and the president appeared, 
bearing the insignia of the Grand Orient and the Grand Copht. 

He slowly ascended the platform, and turning towards the 
assembly, said : “ Brethren, to-day we have two things to do. 
We have to receive three new members, and I have to render 
you an account of my work, from the day I begun to the present 
time. That work becomes every hour more difficult, and you 
must know if I am yet worthy of your coiffidence. Only by 


THE COUNTESS DE CH ARN Y, 


2iS 

receiving light from you, and diffusing it, can I march on the 
dark and terrible journey I have undertaken. Let, then, the 
chiefs of the order alone remain in this hall, that we may pro- 
ceed to the reception or rejection of the three new members 
who present themselves before us. These three members being 
accepted or rejected, all will enter the hall, from the first to the 
last, for to a1), not alone to the supreme circle, do I wish to 
exhibit my conduct and receive praise or censure.” 

At these words, a door opposite to the one already unmasked 
opened. Vast vaulted rooms, like the crypts of an ancient 
basilica, became open, and the crowd passed into them, like a 
procession of spectres, through dimly lighted arcades, in which 
lamps of copper were placed here and there, barely sufficient, 
as the poet says, “to make darkness visible.” 

Three men alone remained — the recipiendaries. It chanced 
that they leaned against the wall at almost equal distances apait. 
They looked curiously at each other, but did not discover who 
and what they were. 

At that moment the door through which the president had 
entered again re-opened, and six masked men appeared and 
placed themselves three on each side of the president. 

“ Let numbers two and three disappear for a moment. None 
but the supreme chiefs may know the secrets of the reception 
or rejection of a masonic brother into the order of the illuminati.^ 

The young man and the man of aristocratic bearing withdrew 
to the corridor whence they had entered. 

Billot remained. 

“ Approach,” said the president, after a brief silence, during 
which the others had withdrawn. Billot drew near. 

“ How are you known among the profane ?” 

Francis BiiloL” 

“ Among the elect ?” Force.” 

“ Where saw you the light ?” 

“ In the Lodge of the Friends of Truth of Soissons,” 

“How old are you ?” “ Seven years.” 

Billot made a sign to show that he was a master of his order. 

“ Why do you wish, to ascend a degree, and to be received 

among us ?” “ Because I have been told that it is a step 

towards universal light.” 

“ Have you sponsors ?” “ I have none but him who 

came to me alone, and unsolicited, and offered to receive me.” 
Billot looked fixedly at the president ■■ 


THE LODGE IN THE RUE PLA 7 RIERE, 239 

“With what feeling will you tread the path that shall be 
opened to you ?” 

Hatred to the powerful and love of equality.” 

“ Who will answer to us for your love of equality and hatred 
of oppression ?” 

“The word of a man. who never has broken his word.* 

“What inspires you with this love of equality?” 

“ The inferior condition of my birth.” 

“ What inspires you with hatred of the powerful ?” “That 

is my secret : that secret you know. Why make me utter aloud 
what I would not even whisper?” 

“ Will you advance according to your power, and make all 
around you advance towards equality ?*•' “Yes.” 

The president turned towards the chiefs in masks. “ Bro- 
thers,” said he, “ this man speaks the truth. A great sorrow 
unites him to our cause, by the fraternity of hatred. Already 
he has contributed much to the revolution, and may do much 
more. I am his sponsor, and will be answerable for him in the 
present, past and future.” 

“ Let him be received,” said the six unanimously. 

“ You hear ? Are you ready to take the oath ?” 

“ Dictate, and I wdll repeat it.” 

The president lifted up his hand, and with a slow solemn 
voice said : 

“ In the name of the crucified Son, I swear to break the 
carnal bonds which unite me yet to father, mother, brothers, 
sisters, wife, kindred, friends, mistresses, kings, benefactors, or 
any one else, or to any being to whom I have promised faith, 
obedience, gratitude, or service.” 

Billot repeated in a voice firmer even than that of the pre- 
sident, the same words. 

“Good!” S:id the president. “Henceforth you are freed 
from oaths to your country and its laws. Swear to reveal to 
the new chief you have recognised all you shall hear, learn or 
guess, and even to seek and spy out what may not come before 
your eyes.” 

“ I swear !” said Billot. 

“ Swear,” continued the president, “ to honour and respect 
poison, steel, and fire, as prompt, pure, and necessary means to 
purge the globe by the death of those who seek to defile truth 
and wrest it from our hands.” 

“ I swear !” repeated Billot 


240 


THE COUHTESS DE C HA RHY, 


“ Swear to avoid Naples, Rome, Spain, and every accursed 
land. Swear to avoid the temptation to reveal aught you may 
hear in our assemblies, for thunder is not more prompt than 
the invisible knife to reach and slay you wherever you may 
be.” 

“ I swear !” repeated Billot. 

“Now,” said the president, “live in the name of the Father, 
Son, and Holy Ghost.” 

A brother hidden in the dark opened the door of the crypt, 
where, until the conclusion of the triple reception, the brothers 
waited. The president made a sign to Billot, who bowed and 
joined those to whom the oath he had taken had assimilated 
him. 

“ Number 2 !” said the president in a loud voice, and the 
closed door opened again, and the young man appeared. 

“ Draw near,” said the president. 

The young man did so. 

We have already said that he was a young man of twenty of 
twenty-two, who, thanks to his fine white skin, might have 
passed for a woman. The huge cravat worn at that time might 
induce one to believe that the dazzling transparency of that 
skin was not to be attributed to purity of blood, but, on the con- 
trary, to some secret and concealed malady. In spite of his 
high stature and great cravat, his neck was short, his forehead 
low, and the whole front of the head depressed. The result was 
that his hair, without being longer that it was usually worn at 
that time, touched the shoulders behind, and in front hung over 
his forehead. There was in the whole bearing of this man, as 
yet on the threshold of life, something of automatic harshness 
which made him look like an envoy of the other world — a 
deputy from the tomb. 

The president looked for a moment at him with attention, 
and then began to question him. His glance, though exceed- 
ingly fixed, could not make the young man look away. He 
waited and listened. 

“Your name among the profane?” “Antoine St Just” 

“Among the elect ?” “ Humility.” 

“ Where saw you light ?” 

“In the Lodge of the Humanitarians of Laon.” 

“How old are you ?” “Five years old.” 

The president made a sign to show that he was a free and 
accepted mason. 


THE LODGE IN THE RUE PLA TRIERE. 241 

** Why do you wish to ascend a degree and to be one of 
ns ?’* 

“ Because it is man’s nature to aspire to elevations, and that 
on the heights the air is purer and the light more brilliant.’’ 

“ Have you a model ?” “ The philosopher of Geneva, the 

man of nature, the immortal Rousseau.” 

“ Have you sponsors ?” “ Two.” 

“ Who are they ?” “ The two Robespierres.’* 

“ With what feeling will you march in the path we open to 
you ?” 

“ With faith.” 

“ Whither will that faith conduct France and the world ?” 

“France to liberty, the world to freedom.” 

“ What would you give to have France and the world reach 
that liberty ?” 

“ My life is all I have, my fortune I have already given.” 

“ Then, if received, you will advance with all your force and 
power, and cause all around you to advance in the path that 
leads to liberty and freedom ?” 

“ I will, and will urge all others.’' 

“ Then in proportion to your power you will overturn every 
obstacle you meet with in your journey?” “ I will.” 

“ Are you free from all obligation, or if any obligation con- 
trary to our law's has been assumed by you, w'ill you break it ?’' 

‘‘ I am free.” 

“ Brothers, have you heard him?” “Yes,” said they. 

“Has he spoken the truth?” “Yes,” said they again. 

“ Are you ready to take the oath ?” “ I am.” 

And the president repeated the same oaths he had ad- 
ministered to Billot 

When the door of the crypt had closed on St Just, in a loud 
tone the president called, “ Number 3 !” 

This was, as we have said, a man of forty or forty-two, flushed 
in his face, almost bloated, but very tall, and in every lineament 
showing an aristocratic air, which at the first glance revealed 
Anglomania. His dress, though elegant, bore something of 
that simplicity just begun to be adopted in France, the true 
origin of which was the relations of France with America. 

His step, though it did not tremble, was not firm like St 
Just’s, nor heavy like Billot’s. 

“ Draw near.” The candidate obeyed. 

“ Your name among the profane ?” 

16 


24 ^ 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


Louis Philippe, Duke of Orleans.” 

“ Your name among the elect ?” ** Equality ^ 

“ Where saw you the light ?” 

** In the Lodge of the Freemen of Paris.” 

“ How old are you?” “ I have no age,” — and the duke 

made a masonic sign, showing that he had reached the dignity 
of rose cross. 

“ Why do you wish to be received by us ?” 

“ Because, having till now lived with the great, I now wish to 
live with men. Because, having ever lived with my enemies, I 
would now live with my brothers.” 

Have you sponsors ?” “ Two.” 

“ How call you them ?” “ Hatred and Disgust.” 

“ With what feeling will you walk the path we will open to you?” 

“ The desire to avenge myself.” “ On whom ?” 

“ Him who mistook ; and on her who humiliated me.” 

“ Are you free from all engagement, or will you renounce any 
engagement contrary to our laws ?” 

“ Every engagement was broken yesterday.” 

Brothers, have you heard ?” said the president, turning to the 
masked men. “ Yes.” 

“ You know him who presents himself to finish the work with 
us.” “ Yes.” 

“And knowing, will you receive him in our ranks?** 

“ Yes, if he swear.” 

“ Do you know the oath you have to take ?** 

“ No ; but repeat it, and I will pronounce it” 

“ It is terrible, especially to you !” 

“ Not more terrible than the outrages I have received.” 

“ So terrible, that when you shall have heard it, we declare 
you at liberty to depart, if you feel unable to keep it rigidly.” 

“Tell it me.” 

The president fixed his piercing eye on the recipiendary ; then, 
as if he wished to prepare him for the bloody promise, inverted 
the order of the paragraphs, and began by the second instead of 
the first : 

“ Swear,” said he, “ to honour poison, steel and fire, as sure 
means to purge the earth, by the death of those who seek to 
defile truth, or wrest it from our hands.” 

“ I swear,” said the prince firmly. 

“ Swear to break the carnal links which bind you yet to father, 
mother, brothers, sisters, friends, wife, mistress, kings, bene 


THE LODGE IN THE RUE PLATRiERE. 


243 


factors, and all persons whatever, to wliom you have promised 
faiih, obedience, and gratitude/’ 

For a moment the duke was silent, and a pearly sweat stood 
on his brow\ 

“ I told you the oath,” said the president. 

Instead of simply saying “ I swear,” the duke repeated every 
word of the oath. 

The president looked towards the masked men, who looked at 
each other, and the twinkling of their eyes was seen behind their 
masks. 

Then, speaking to the prince, he said, Louis Philippe Joseph, 
Duke of Orleans, from this moment you are freed from every 
obligation you have taken to your country and to the law. 
Forget not, though, one thing, tl at if you betray us, thunder will 
not be so quick to strike, than will be, wherever you be con- 
cealed, the inevitable and invisible knife ; now live in the name 
of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.” 

The president pointed to the crypt, which opened before the 
prince. 

He, like a min who has thrown down a burden too heavy for 
him, passed his hand over his brow, breathed deeply, and moved 
away. 

“Ah !” said he, as he rushed into the crypt, “how I will 
avenge myself !” 

When alone, the president and six masked men exchanged a 
few words. 

He then said aloud, “ Admit all ; I am ready, as I promised, 
to receive my account.” 

The door opened — the members of the association who were 
in the crypt, w'alking and talking, entered the hall, filling it again. 

Scarcely was the door shut behind the last of the affiliated, 
than Cagliostro, reaching forth his hand like a man who knows 
the value of time, and is unwilling to lose a second, said aloud ; 

“ Brothers ! some of you, perhaps, were present at the réunion 
which took place just twenty years ago, five miles from the 
Rhine, two miles from the village of Danenfels, in one of the 
caverns of Donnensberg : if any were there, let those venerable 
supporters of the great cause we have embraced lift up their 
hands and say, ‘ I was there.’ ” 

Five or six hands were lifted. Five or six voices repeated, 
as the president had asked : “ I was there !” 

“ This is all that is needed. The rest are dead or dispersed 

i6 — 2 


244 


THE COUNTESS CE CH ARN Y, 


over the surface of the globe, toiling at the common work, which 
is made holy by the fact that it is the work of humanity. 
Twenty years ago this work, the different periods of which we 
are about to trace, was scarcely begun. Then the day which 
illumines us had scarcely broken, and the firmest eyes could 
not see through the clouds which enwrapped the future. At 
this meeting I will explain by what miracle death, which to 
man is only an oblivion of past times and ages, does not exist 
for me — or rather, how it is that thirty-two times I have slept 
in the tomb during twenty centuries, without the ephemeral 
heirs of my immortal soul having known Lethe, the only death. 

“I have, then, been able to follow through centuries the 
development of Christ’s word, and seen people pass slowly, 
but surely, from savage life to serfdom, and thence to that state 
of aspiration which is the forerunner of liberty. Like the stars 
of the night which hurry even before the setting of the sun, to 
shine in the sky, we have seen at various times various small 
people of Europe attempt liberty. Rome, Venice, Florence, 
Switzerland, Genoa, Pisa, Lucca and Arezzo — these cities of 
the south, where the flowers open first, and the fruits ripen 
soonest, at an earlier day established republics, one or two of 
which yet exist, and brave the line of kings; but all were so sullied 
with original sin that some were aristocratic, others oligarchic, 
and others despotic. Genoa, for instance, one of those which 
survive, is a marquisate, and the inhabitants, though simple 
citizens within the walls, are all noble beyond them. Switzer- 
land alone has democratic institutions, but its imperceptible 
cantons, lost amid the Alps, are neither an example nor an 
assistance to humanity. This was not what we needed. We 
required a great country, not to receive but to give an impulse, 
which should so rotate that, like a blazing planet, it might light 
up the world.” 

A murmur of approbation pervaded the whole crowd. 

“ I asked of God, Creator of earth. Author of all motion, for 
that country, and he showed me France. In France, which 
from the second century had been catholic, national from the 
eleventh, Unitarian from the sixteenth. France, which the Lord 
himself called his eldest daughter, doubtless’ had the right in 
this line of great devotion to place herself at the foot of the 
cross of humanity, as she did at that of Christ. In fact, France, 
having used every form of monarchical, feudal, seignoral, and 
aristocratic government, seemed most apt to feel and submit to 


THE LODGE IN THE RUE PL A TRIERE. 245 

bur government, and we decided, conducted like the Jews of 
old by the celestial ray, that France should first be free. Con- 
sider what France was twenty years ago, and you will see the 
sublime audacity, or rather sublime faith, which induced us to 
undertake so much. France twenty years ago \vas within the 
weak hands of Louis XV. The France of Louis XIV., that is 
to say, the great aristocratic kingdom, where all rights belonged 
to the noble, all privileges to the rich. At its head was a man 
who at one and the same time was the exponent of all that was 
lofty and base, great and petty — of God and the people. A 
w’ord of this man could make you rich or poor, hajjpy or miser- 
able, free or captive, living or dead. He had three grandsons 
called to succeed him. Chance decided that he wLom nature 
called to the throne was the one the people prayed for. He 
was said to be good, just, disinterested, w'ell-informed, and 
almost a philosopher. To crush for ever the disastrous tvars 
kindled in Europe by the fatal succession of Charles IL, the 
daughter of Maria Theresa was selected for his w’ife. T he two 
great nations w'hich are the counterpoise of Europe, France on 
the Atlantic, and Austria on the Black Sea, were indissolubly 
united. This had been foreseen by Maria Theresa, the deepest 
politician of Europe. At that time France, sustained by Austria, 
Spain, and Italy, was about entering into a new reign, and we 
selected it not to make it the first of kingdoms but the first of 
nations. The only question asked w^as who would enter the 
lion’s den? What Christian Theseus, guided by the light of 
faith, would thread the Dædalian labyrinth and face the Minotaur? 
I said, ‘ I wilL^ Then, as some ardent minds, some uneasy 
organizations, asked me how much time would be required to 
complete the first portion of my work, I replied, ‘ Twenty years.' 
They objected. Listen to me. These men had for twenty 
centuries been serfs, but objected when I proposed to free them 
in twenty years.” 

Cagliostro glanced for a moment round the Assembly, whom 
his last words had provoked into an ironical smile. 

He continued : “ At last I obtained these twenty years. I 

gave my followers the famous device : Lilia pedibus destrue^ and 
set to work, advising all to follow my example. I entered 
France in the midst of a triuçnph. Laurels and roses mad e one 
long pathway of flowers from Strasbourg to Paris. All cried, 
‘ Long live the dauphiness !’ ‘ Long live our future queen 1’ 
The hopes of the kingdom hung oh the fecundity oi the marriaga 


24 $ 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


I do not wish to take to myself the credit of the attempt, nor 
the glory of the effect — God was with me, and I saw that his 
divine hand held the reins of his car of fire. God be praised. 
I removed the stones from its road — I bridged the rivers — I 
levelled precipices, and the car rolled on. That was all. Now, 
brethren, see what has been accomplished in twenty years. 

“ Parliaments are gone. 

“ Louis XV., called the Well-beloved, is dead, amidst general 
contempt. 

“ The queen, after seven years of sterility, bore children, the 
birth of whom is contested. She was openly attacked by charges 
of the dauphin’s illegitimacy, and was dishonoured as a mother 
on account of the diamond necklace. 

“ The king, under the title of Louis the Long-wished-for, is 
powerless in politics as in love, and has rushed from Utopia to 
Utopia, to bankruptcy, and from minister to minister, to M. de 
Galonné. 

“ The nobility and clergy have been overpowered by the third 
estate. 

“ The Bastile has been taken — the foreign troops driven from 
Paris and Versailles. 

“The 14th of July, 1790, exhibited the unity of the world 
in France. 

“ The princes have been depopularised by emigration, and 
Monsieur by De Favras’ trial. 

“ In fine, the constitution has been sworn to on the altar of 
the country. The President of the National Assembly sits on 
a throne high as that of the king; the law and the nation are 
above them. All Europe hangs over us with anxiety, and is 
silent and applauds, or if not, trembles. 

“ Brothers, was I not right when I said what France would 
be a glowing planet to illuminate the world ?” 

“ Ves ! yes !” cried every voice. 

“Now, my brothers,” said Cagliostro, “do you think the 
work far enough advanced for us to leave it to itself? Do you 
think that we can trust in the oath taken by the king to main- 
tain the constitution ?” 

“No ! no !” cried every voice. 

“Then,” said Cagliostro, “the second revolutionary period 
of the great work is to corne. In your eyes, as in mine, I see 
with joy that the federation of 1790 is not ended but halted. 
So be it. The halt is made, the rest is taken : the court has 


THE LODGE IN THE RUE PLATE I ERE. 


247 


begun the work of counter-revolution. Let us gird up our 
loins and set out again. Without doubt, timid hearts will have 
moments of misgiving and terror ; the ray which lights us will 
often seem almost ready to fail, the hand which guides us will 
tremble and seem to desert us. More than once during the 
long period which remains for us to fulfil, the party will seem 
lost, almost destroyed ; by some accident, unfavourable circum- 
stances, the triumph of our enemies, the ingratitude of our 
fellow-citizens, all will appear to go wrong. Many, and perhaps 
the most conscientious of you, will ask yourselves, after so 
much real fatigue, and so much apparent impotence, if they 
have not followed the false road, and engaged in a bad way. 
No, brothers, no, no ! I tell you now' — and let my words sound 
eternally in your ears, in victory like a trumpet, in defeat like a 
tocsin of terror — no, the people w'ho lead the way have a holy 
mission to fulfil — the accomplishment of which Providence 
watches over. The Lord w^ho guides them, in his mysterious 
way, revealing himself only in the splendour of the fulfilment, is 
often by a cloud hidden from our sight, and thought absent. 
Often an idea draws back and seems to retreat, when, like the 
ancient knights in the tourneys of old, it simply gains ground 
to place its lance in rest, and rush again on the adversary, 
refreshed and more ardent. Brothers, brothers, the end to 
v/hich we tend is a beacon lighted on a lofty mountain. Twenty 
times during every journey the inequalities of the ground hide 
it from our view, and we think it extinguished. Then the W’eak 
halt, murmur, and complain, saying, ‘ We have no guide, and 
will advance no more in the night ; let us remain where w'e are ; 
why lose ourselves?’ The strong continue, smiling and con- 
fident, and the beacon reappears, to fade and vanish again, each 
time more bright and visible, because it is nearer. Striving and 
persevering thus, believing especially the elect of the world w'ill 
reach the foot of the beacon, the light of w'hich will some day 
not only light up France, but all other nations, let us sw'ear 
then, brothers, for ourselves and our descendants — for some- 
times the eternal principle uses many generations — let us sw’ear, 
for ourselves and our descendants, not to pause until we shall 
have established on earth the holy device of Christ, of which 
we have already conquered the first part — liberty, equality, 
fraternity.^ 

The words of Cagliostro were followed by loud applause. 
Amid, however, all these cries and bravoes, falling on the 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


248 

general enthusiasm like drops of water dripping from a rock of 
ice on a sweating brow, these words were heard, pronounced 
by a harsh and piercing voice : 

* “ Let us swear : but first tell us how you understand these 
words, that we, your apostles, may understand you N 

A piercing glance from Cagliostro overran the whole crowd 
like a light refracted from a mirror, and lighted upon the pale 
face of the deputy from Arras. 

“ So be it,” said he. “ Hear, Maximilien.” 

Then, raising both his hand and voice, he said : “ Listen all 
of you !” 

Then a solemn silence pervaded the assembly — a silence 
which guaged the importance attached to the measures under 
discussion. 

“ Yes, you are right to ask what Liberty is, what Equality is, 
what Fraternity is. I will tell you. Let us begin with liberty. 
Above all, my brothers, do not confound liberty with in- 
dependence. They are two sisters who resemble each other — 
they are two enemies who hate each other. Almost all nations 
inhabiting mountains are independent. I do not know one 
except Switzerland that is free. None will deny that the 
Corsican, the Calabrian, and the Scot are independent ; none 
will dare to call’ them free. Let the Calabrian be wounded in 
his whims, the Corsican in his honour, and the Scot in his in- 
terests— the Calabrian, who cannot appeal to justice, for there 
is no justice in oppressed lands, will appeal to his dagger, the 
Corsican to his stiletto, and the Scot to his dirk. He strikes, 
and his enemy falls ! The mountains offer him a refuge, and 
instead of the liberty vainly invoked by the men of cities, he 
finds independence in the dark caverns, the deep woods and 
high places of the mountains — that is to say, the independence 
of the fox, chamois, and eagle. The eagle, chamois, and fox, 
however, are impassible, invariable, indifferent spectators of the 
great drama of life unfolded before them, and are animals 
devoted to instinct and to solitude. Primitive, ancient, and 
maternal civilization, such as that of India, Egypt, Etruria, 
Asia Minor, Greece, and Latium, by a union of their sciences, 
like a wreath of lights shining over the world to light in its 
cradle and development modern civilization, have left the foxes 
in their holes, the chamois on their cliffs, and the eagles in 
their clouds. To them time has passed, but been unmeasured : 
the sciences have flourished, but there has been no progress j 


THE LODGE IN THE RUE PLATRILRE. 


249 


to them nations have arisen, flourished and decayed, and taught 
nothing. Providence has restricted all their faculties to in- 
dividual preservation, while God has given man the knowledge 
of good and evil, the sentiment of the just and unjust, a horror 
of isolation, and a love of society. Thus it is that man, born 
solitary like the fox, wild like the chamois, isolated like the 
eagle, has collected into families, agglomerated into tribes, and 
formed peoples. The individual who isolates himself, as I told 
you, my brethren, has only a right to independence— men in 
communities have a right to liberty 

“ Liberty. 

“ This is not a primitive and universal substance, like gold, 
but a fruit, an art, a production. Liberty is the right every one 
has to follow his own interests, satisfaction, amusement, glory, 
everything that does not injure another. It is the relinquish 
ment of a portion of individual independence to establish a fund 
of general liberty, into which each one contributes an equal 
quota. Liberty, in fine, is more than all this : it is an obligation 
assumed, in the face of the world, not to close the paths of pro- 
gress, light, or privilege to all but one egotistic circle of one race 
or nation, but, on the contrary, to spread them openly, either as 
individuals or as a society, to any who are needy and ask them 
of you. Fear not to exhaust this treasure, for liberty has this 
privilege, that it multiplies itself by prodigality, like to those im- 
mense streams which water the earth, and which are pure at the 
fountain in proportion to the volume they emit. Such is liberty, 
a heavenly manna in which all have a right, and which the 
chosen people to whom it falls must share with all nations who 
ask their portion. Such is liberty as I understand it,” said 
Cagliostro. “ Now, let us pass to equality.” 

A murmur of approbation filled the room, enwrapping the 
orator in that caress which is certainly most grateful to the 
pride, if not to the heart of the man— popularity. 

Used, though, to orations of this kind, he reached forth his 
hand to command silence. 

“ Brothers, time passes ! Time is valuable : every minute we 
lose is used by the enemies of our holy cause to dig an abyss 
for us or raise an obstacle in our way. Let me, then, tell you 
what equality is.” 

At these words there were many cries for silence, amid which 
the voice of Cagliostro arose clearly and distinctly. 


350 


THE COUNTESS DE CIIARNY, 


He began by stating that none would think that he promul- 
gated the idea of absolute equality, but only social and legal. 
It would be as vain to seek by a decree to level Himalaya and 
Chimboraza to the grade of the Pontine Marshes, as to lift all 
men to the intellectual superiority of Dante, Shakespeare, and 
Homer. He would speak of social equality 

“ Equality ! 

“ It is the abolition of all privileges transmissible from father 
to son, free access of all grades, of all ranks, to all offices, a re- 
ward to merit, genius and virtue, and not the appanage of a 
caste. Thus the throne, supposing even the throne remain, is 
or rather will be, only an exalted position to be reached by the 
most worthy ; while the inferior degrees, according to their 
merit, will hold secondary posts, without being in the least 
anxious for kings, ministers, councillors, judges, as far as the 
source whence they come is concerned. Thus royalty or 
magistracy, the monarchical throne or president’s chair, will not 
be inherited as the appanage of a family. Election to the 
council, to the army, to the bench, will do away with family 
privilege ; aptitude — thus science and art will no longer de- 
pend on patronage ; rivalry — this is social equality. Slowly, 
with the advance of education, which shall not only be gratuit- 
ous and in every one’s reach, but compulsory, ideas will increase 
and equality will advance with them. Equality, instead of re- 
maining with its feet in the mud, will ascend the loftiest sum- 
mits, and a great nation like France can recognise only an 
equality which exalts, not that which degrades. The latter is 
not that of the Titan, but of the bandit — it is the Procrustean 
bed, the Caucasian couch of Prometheus.” 

Such a definition could not fail to excite approbation amid a 
society of men of exalted ideas, every one of whom, with a few 
exceptions, saw the degrees of his own elevation. Hurrahs, 
bravoes, and clappings followed, proving that even there and 
then were some in the assembly, who, when the time came, 
would put a different interpretation on equality from Cagliostro, 
yet as a theory accepted it as the powerful genius of the strange 
chief interpreted it. 

Cagliostro, who was more ardent, more enlightened, and 
more resplendent, asked again for silence, in a voice which 
gave token of no fatigue or of any hesitation. 

“ Brothers,” said he, “ we have now come to the third word 


THE LODGE IN THE RUE TLATRIERE. 


251 


of the device, to that which men will be the last to understand, 
and which for that reason has doubtless been placed last We 
have come to 

“ Fraternity ! 

“ Great word when understood ! God keep me from saying 
that he who takes it in its narrow sense, and apjilies it to the 
citizens of a village, town, or kingdom, has a bad heart No, 
brother, he has but a weak mind. Let us pity the poor soul, 
and try to strip his feet of the leaden sandals of mediocrity. 
Let us unfold our wings and sail above all vulgar ideas. When 
Satan wished to tempt Jesus, he transported him to the loftiest 
mountain of the world, and showed him all the kingdoms of 
the earth, not to the mountain of Nazareth, w'hence he could 
see but the petty cities of Judea. Brothers, the word fraternity 
must not be applied to a kingdom, but to the w'orld. Brothers, 
a day wdll come, wLen the word country, which now seems 
sacred to us, and nationality, which seems holy, w’ill disappear 
like the canvas scenes which are let down for the time being to 
enable the carpenters and painters to prepare others. Brothers, 
the day will come when those who conquered the w’orld will 
conquer fire and w’ater, when the elements will be subjected to 
man’s will, and when, thanks to rapidity of communication, all 
nations will be as brothers. Then, brethren, a magnificent sight 
wdll be unrolled in the face of God. Every ideal frontier will 
disappear ; every limit of space will disappear ; the rivers will 
be no longer an obstacle, the mountains a hindrance : people 
wdll clasp each others hands across rivers, and on every 
mountain-top the altar of fraternity will arise. Brothers, 
brothers, I tell you, this is the true fraternity of the apostle. 

“ Christ died to ransom all the nations of the w'orld. Do not 
therefore make these three words, liberty, equality, and 
fraternity, simply the device of France, but write them on the 
labarum of humanity as the device of the w’orld. 

“ Now, my brethren, go. Your task is great — so great that 
through whatever valley of tears and blood you pass, your 
children will envy your holy mission, and like the crusaders, 
who always become more numerous and anxious to view the 
holy land, they will not pause, though they find their road by 
bleaching bones on the w'ay-side. Courage then, apostles ! 
pilgrims ! soldiers ! Apostles, make converts ! pilgrims, on- 
ward ! soldiers, fight !” Cagliostro paused, but not until general 
and universal' applause had interrupted him. 


252 THE COUNTESS DE CIIAKNY, 

Thrice hushed, thrice again this applause arose beneath the 
arches of the vault, like the sound of the tempest. 

The six masked men then bowed before him, kissed his hand, 
and retired. 

Each of the brothers then bowed before the platform, where, 
like another Peter the Hermit, this new apostle preached the 
crusade of liberty, and passed away uttering the words, “ Lilia 
pedibus destrue !” 

The last lamp went out, and Cagliostro remained alone, in 
silence and darkness, like those Indian gods in whose mysteries 
he pretended to have been initiated a thousand years before. 


CHAPTER XXITI. 

WOMEN AND FLOWERS. 

A FEW months after the events we have related, towards the 
end of March, 1791, a carriage coming rapidly from Argenteuil 
to Besson made a détour of a quarter of a league from the latter 
city, and advanced towards the Chateau du Marais, the gate of 
which opened before it, and stopped in the inner court-yard 
immediately in front of the door. 

The clock in front of the building announced the hour to be 
eight A.M. 

An old servant, who seemed to await the arrival of this 
carriage most anxiously, went to the door and opened it, and a 
man dressed in black got out. 

“ Ah, M. Gilbert ! here you are at last I” 

“ What is the matter, Teisch ?” 

“Alas, sir, you will see.” 

Going before the doctor, he took him through the billiard- 
room — the lamps of which, doubtless lighted at a late hour of 
the night, yet burned — thence to the dining-room, whose table, 
covered with flowers, uncorked bottles, fruits, and pastry, be- 
tokened that supper had been prolonged later than usual. 

Gilbert looked at this scene of disorder, which shoved how 
his presciiptions had been followed, with sadness. He then 
shrugged his shoulders with a sigh, and went uo ’he stairway 
which led to Mirabeau’s room. 

“ Count,” the servant said, “ here is M. Gilbert’* 


WOMEN AND FLOWERS, 


253 


“What, the doctor?” said Mirabeau. “Vou did not go for 
him for such a trifle ?” 

“Trifle !” said Teisch ; “judge tor yourself, doctor.” 

“Doctor,” said Mirabeau riing from his bed, “believe me, 
I am sorry that without my consent you have been so dis- 
turbed.” 

“ Count, I am never disturbed when I have an opportunity 
to see you. You know that I only attend a few Iriends, to 
whom I belong entirely. Tell me what has happened? — above 
all, have no secrets from your physiciaa Teisch, draw the 
curtains aside and open the window.” 

This order having been obeyed, lignt snone on Mirabeau. 
The doctor was able to see the change which a month had 
WTought in the celebrated orator. “ Ah, ha J” said he in- 
voluntarily. 

“ Yes !” said Mirabeau, “ am I not changed ? I am going to 
tell you why.” 

Gilbert smiled sadly. But as a skilful physician always profits 
by what his patient says, even though he lie to him, he listened. 

“You know what question was considered yesterday?” 

“ Yes, the mines.” 

“ The matter is not at an understood or measured ; the 
interests of the owners and of the government are not sufflciently 
distinct. The Count de la Marck, my intimate friend, is very 
deeply interested in the matter, and the half of his fortune de- 
pends upon it. His puree has always been mine, and I must be 
grateful. I spoke, or rather I charged, three times ; at the last 
charge, I routed the enemies, but was myself taken a little aback. 
When I came home I resolved to celebrate the victory. I had 
a few friends to supper, and we laughed and jested until three in 
the morning. At five I was taken with a violent pain in my 
bowels, and I cried like an imbecile. Teisch, like a fool, be- 
came terrified, and sent for you. Now you know as much as I 
do. Here is my puise, here is my tongue : cure me if you can, 
for I tell you I know nothing of the matter.” 

Gilbert was too shrewd a physician not to be able to see, 
without looking at pulse or tongue, the peril of Mirabeau’s 
condition. He seemed in danger of suffocation, and his face 
was swollen from the stoppage of blood in his lungs. He 
complained of excessive cold in the extremities, and from time 
to time pain wTung from him a sigh or a cry. His pulse was 
convulsive and intermittent 


254 


THE COUNTESS DE CIIARNY, 


** Come,” said Gilbert, “ this time it will be nothing, but, my 
dear count, I came only just in time.” 

He took his book from his pocket with the rapidity and calm- 
ness which are the distinguishing trait of true genius. 

“ Ah, ha !” said Mirabeau, “ you are going to bleed me ?” 

“At once.” “In the’ right or left arm ?” 

“ In neither. Your lungs are too full. I intend to open a vein 
in the foot, and Teisch must go to Argenteuil for mustard and 
cantharides — you must be blistered. Take my carriage, Teisch.” 

“ Diable,” said Mirabeau, “ then you were just in time.” 

Gilbert at once bled him, and soon black thick blood, which 
at first did not flow freely, gushed from the patient’s foot. He 
was relieved instantly. 

“ Morbleu, doctor,” said he, “ you are a great man.” 

“ And you are worse than a fool, to risk a life so valuable to 
your friends and to all Frenchmen, for the sake of a few hours 
of false enjoyment.” 

Mirabeau smiled sadly, almost ironically. “ Bah, doctor ! 
you exaggerate the number of miy friends and the condition of 
France,” said he. 

“ On my honour; great men always complain of the ingratitude 
of others, but it is they who really are ungrateful. Be really sick, 
and to-morrow all Paris will be beneath your window. Die the 
next day, and all France will wear mourning.” 

“ Do you know, doctor, what you say is very consoling ?” said 
Mirabeau, with a smile. 

“ The reason that I say this is, that you may see the one case 
without risking the other. You need some great demonstration 
to reinstate you, in a moral point of view. Let me take you back 
to Paris in two hours ; let me but tell the policeman at the first 
corner that you are sick, and you will see.” 

“Think you I could go to Paris ?” 

“ Yes, at once ! Where do you suffer ?” 

“ I breathe more freely, my head is clear, the mist before my 
eyes is gone, but my bowels ” 

“ Ah ! the blisters will correct that. The bleeding was well, 
and the blisters will do their duty. Ah ! here is Teisch.” 

The valet came in with the ingredients he had been sent for. 
In a quarter of an hour the improvement the doctor had pre- 
dicted was perceptible. 

“Now,” sa.d Glbert, “sleep for an hour, and then I will take 
you to Paris.” 


WOMEN AND FLOWERS. 


255 


•* Doctor,” said Mirabeau, “suffer me not to leave until even* 
ing, and give me a rendezvous at my hotel in the Chaussée 
d’Antin at eleven.” 

Gilbert looked at Mirabeau. The patient saw that his physi- 
cian wished to know why he desired this delay. 

“ Why !” said Mirabeau, “ I have a visit to receive.” 

“ My dear count, I saw many flowers on the table of your 
dining-room. You did not give a supper yesterday merely to 
your friends.” 

“ You know I cannot do without flowers : it is a passion.” 

“Yes, but you had not flowers alone.” 

“ Dame ! if flowers be required, I must at least submit to their 
ccnsequences.” “ Count, you will kill yourself.” 

“ At least, doctor, in a pleasant manner.” 

“ I leave you for to-day.” 

“ Doctor, I have given you my word, and will not break it.” 

“You will come to Paris this evening?” 

“ I told you I would expect you at eleven. Is that enough ?” 

“ Not quite.” 

“ Have I not made a conquest of Juliet, Talma’s wife? Doctor, 
I feel perfectly well.” 

“ Then you drive me off.” 

“ Oh ! fy, fy.” 

“ Well, you are right ! I live in the Quartier des Tuileries.” 

“ Ah ! you will see the queen ?” said Mirabeau, growing 
moody. 

“ Probably. Have you any message for her ?” 

“ Why ?” 

“ Because she will ask if I have saved your life, as I promised 
to, for I will have to say it was more your fault than mine. 
You do not wish me to say that your labour and toil are killing 
you ?” 

Mirabeau reflected for an instant. “ Yes,” said he, “say that 
•- — make me, if you please, sicker than I really am.” 

“Why?” 

“ Nothing — curiosity — to say something.” “ So be it.” 

“ Do you promise this, doctor ?” “ I do.” 

“ And you will tell me what she says ?” “ Her very words.” 

“ Adieu then, doctor ! a thousand good wishes 1” and he 
gave his hand to Gilbert. 

Gilbert looked fixedly at Mirabeau, whom his glance appeared 
to disturb. 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY* 


256 

“ Apropos ! Before you go, your prescription.” ** Warn% 

soothing drinks. No wine — not a drop ; and above all ” 

“What?” 

“ No nurse under fifty. Do you understand, count ?” 

“ Doctor, rather than violate your orders, I will take two of 
twenty-five.” 

At the door Gilbert met Teisch. The poor man wept. “ Mon- 
sieur,” said he, “ why do you go ?” 

“ Because, my dear Tcisch, your master has driven me av/ay,” 
said Gilbert, smiling. 

“ All this is for a woman,” said the old man ; “and because 
the woman looks like the queen ! A man who, they say, has 
so much genius, my God ! must he be a brute ?” 

He opened the door to Gilbert, who got in, saying, “ What 
on earth has he to do with that woman who is so like the 
queen ?” He took Teisch by the arm, as if to question him, 
but let it go, saying : “ What was I about to do ? It is Mira- 
beau ’s secret, not mine — driver, to Paris.” 

Gilbert scrupulously discharged the promise he had made to 
Mirabeau. As he entered Paris he met Camille Desmoulins, 
the living journal, the incarnation of a newspaper. He told 
him of the illness of Mirabeau, which he did gravely as pos- 
sible, for he did not know if Mirabeau might not commit some 
new indiscretion, though he thought him then in no danger. 

He then went to the Tuileries and informed the king of 
Mirabeau’s condition. The king said, “ Poor count I Has 
he lost his appetite?” — • — “Yes, sire.” 

“ Then he is in a bad way,” said the king. 

His majesty then talked of other matters. 

Gilbert left the king and went into the queen’s apartments, 
where he repeated what he had told the king. The haughty 
Austrian brow was lighted up, and she said, “ Why was he not 
thus attacked on the day he made his fine address about the 
national tricolour ?” 

Then, as if she regretted having suffered these words to 
escape her — expressive as they were of hatred to French nation- 
ality — she said : “ It matters not. It would be most unfortu- 
nate for us and for France if he should be really sick.” 

“ I had the honour to tell the queen that he was not indis- 
posed, but ill.” 

“ But you will cure him, doctor ?” 

** I will do my best, madame.” 


IVOMEN AND FLOIVEES. 


257 

“ Doctor, I rely on you, you know, to give me news of 
de Mirabeau.” 

And then she spoke of other things. 

That night, at the appointed hour, Gilbert went to Mirabeau’s 
hotel. Mirabeau was waiting for him, and sat on a couch. As 
the doctor had been made to wait a moirent, under the pretext 
of informing the count of his presence, he had an opportunity 
to look around the room into which he was shown. The first 
thing that met his eyes was a cashmere shawl. 

As if to divert Gilbert’s attention, or, because he attached 
great importance to the first words interchanged between him- 
self and the doctor, Mirabeau said : “Ah ! is it you ? I know 
you have already kept a portion of your promise. Paris knows 
that I am sick, and for two hours poor Teisch has had, every ten 
minutes, to tell somebody how I am. That was your first 
promise; now about the second ?” 

“ What mean yon ?” “You know.” 

Gilbert shrugged bis shoulders to say he did not. 

“ Have you been to the Tuileries ?” “ Yes.” 

“ You saw the king ?” “ Yes.” 

“The queen?” “Yes.” 

“ And you told them they would soon be rid of me ?” 

“ I told them you were dangerously ill.” 

“ What said they ?” “ The king asked how your appetite 

was ?” 

“ You told him it was gone ?” “ And he pitied you sin- 

cerely.” 

“ Kind king ! ‘ Like Leondias,’ he will say, when he dines 

to-night, ‘ he sups with Pluto.’ But the queen? ” 

“ Pitied, and asked kindly after you.” 

“ How, though ?” said Mirabeau, who evidently attached 
much importance to the question. “ Kindly ?— you promised to 
repeat her words verbatim.”- “ I cannot.” 

“ Doctor ! you have not forgotten one syllable ?” “ I 

swear !” 1 j 1 

“ Doctor ! you gave me your word, and you would not nave 

me treat you as a faithless man.” 

“ You are exacting, count.” “ I am.” 

“ Do you insist that I repeat what the queen said ?” 

“Verbatim.” 

Gilbert repeated the conversation between himself and the 

17 


258 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNV. 


queen, and looked at Mirabeau, to see the influence it had on 
him. 

“ Kings are ungrateful,” said he. “ This speech sufliced to 
make her forget the civil list of eighty millions lor the king over 
her dower of four millions.” 

Mirabeau ran over the long series of his triumphs in the cause 
of the queen, and sank back in his chair exhausted. 

Ten minutes after, Mirabeau was in a bath, and, as usual, 
Teisch escorted Gilbert down. 

Mirabeau arose from his bath to look after the doctor, and 
when he was out of sight, listened to hear his footsteps. He 
then stood motionless until he heard the door open and close. 

He then rang violently, and said : Jean, have a table fixed 
in my room, and ask Mdlle. Oliva if she will sup with me.” 

As he left, Mirabeau said : “ Flowers ! flowers ! You know 
how I love them.” 

At four o’clock Dr. Gilbert w^as awakened by a violent ringing 
of the bell. “Ah !” said he, “I am sure Mirabeau is worse.” 

The doctor was not wrong. After supper Mirabeau had sent 
Jean and Teisch to bed. He had then closed all the doors ex- 
cept the one which admitted the unknown woman \vhom he 
called his evil genius. The servants, however, did not go to 
bed, for Jean slept in the antechamber, in a chair, and Teisch 
kept awake. 

At a quarter before four the bell rang violently. Both rushed 
to Mirabeau’s rooms. The doors were fastened. They went 
round to the room of the unknown woman, and thus reached 
his bed-chamber. Mirabeau, on the floor, half-fainting, held 
this woman in his arms, doubtless to keep her from calling for 
aid. She had rung the bell on the table, being unable to get 
hold of the bell-rope. When she saw the servants, she begged 
them to assist her as well as Mirabeau. In his convulsions 
Mirabeau was strangling her. Thanks to the efforts of the two 
servants, the dying man’s grasp was torn apart. Mirabeau fell 
on a chair, and, all in tears, she entered her room. 

Jean then went for Doctor Gilbert, while Teisch attended to 
his master. 

Gilbert did not wait to send for a carriage. It was not far 
from his house to the Chausse'e d’Antin, and in ten minutes he 
was at Mirabeau’s house. 

Teisch was in the vestibule. “Ah, sir \" said he, “that woman! 
That cursed woman I You will see, you will see !” 


WOMEN AND FLOWERS, 


259 


Gilbert was at the foot of the stairway, when something like 
a sob was heard, and a door opposite Mirabeau’s opened. A 
woman, in a white veil, appeared and fell at the doctor’s feet 
“ Gilbert ! Gilbert 1” said she, folding her arms, for mercy’s 
sake save him.” 

“Nicole !” said Gilbert, “is it you?” 

Gilbert paused a moment A terrible idea flitted across him. 
“Ah!*’ murmured he, “Beausire sells pamphlets against him, 
and Nicole is his mistress. All is lost, for Cagliostro’s finger is 
visible.” 

He hurried into Mirabeau’s room, being aware there was not 
a moment to be lost. 

It is not our intention to follow all the various phases of this 
terrible disease. In the morning a report of it got into the city, 
and this time more seriously than before — he had a relapse, it 
was said, and this relapse threatened death. 

It was then that one could judge of the great space occupied 
by one man in the midst of a nation. All Paris was moved as 
if a general calamity threatened the community. All the day, 
as before, the street was guarded by the people, in order that 
the noise of carriages might not disturb him. From hour to 
hour the groups assembled under the windows asked the news. 
Bulletins were issued, w'hich passed at once from the Chaussée 
d’Antin to the extremities of Paris. The door was besieged by 
citizens in every station, of every opinion, as if every party, how- 
ever opposed to each other, had something to lose in losing 
Mirabeau. During all this time the relations and particular 
friends of the great orator filled the hall and chambers without 
his knowing anything about the matter. 

On the evening of this first day of the relapse, a deputation, 
with Barnave at the head, came from the Society of the Jacobins, 
to inquire as to the health of their ex-president. 

Doctor Gilbert never quitted Mirabeau for twenty-four hours. 
On Wednesday evening, he was sufficiently well for Gilbert to 
consent to seek a few hours’ repose in a neighbouring chamber. 

Before going to bed, the doctor ordered that at the least 
change he should be called at once. At break of day he awoke; 
no one had disturbed his sleep, and yet he rose half afraid ; for 
he thought it impossible some change had not taken place. 

On going downstairs, Teisch announced to the doctor, with 
his eyes full of tears, that Mirabeau was worse^ but had forbidden 
any one disturbing Doctor Gilbert. 


17—2 


2do THE COUNTESS DE CHARXY, 

The patient had suffered severely; the pulse had become 
bad again, the pains had developed themselves with greater 
ferocity — in fine, the spasms had returned. 

“ My dear doctor,” he said to Gilbert, “ I shall die to-day. 
When one is as I am, one has nothing to do but to perfume 
and crown one’s self with flowers, so as to enter on the last 
sleep as agreeably as possible May I do as I like?” 

Gilbert made a sign implying that he was his own master. 

He then called his two domestics. “Jean,” said he, “get 
me the most beautiful flowers you can find, while Teisch dresses 
me as well as he can.” 

Jean seemed to ask permission with his eyes of Gilbert, who 
nodded his head in assent. He went out. As for Teisch, who 
had been very ill from watching, he began to shave and dress 
his master. 

When Jean, on whom, as he left the hotel, everybody rushed 
to learn the news, had said that he was going to fetch flowers, 
men rushed down the streets calling for flowers for M. de Mira- 
beau ; and every door opened, each offering what he had, 
whether in the house or conservatory. By nine o’clock in the 
morning, M. de Mirabeau’s chamber was transformed into a 
beautiful bed of flowers, and Teisch had finished his toilet. 

“ My dear doctor,” said Mirabeau, “ I ask you for a quarter 
of an hour to bid good-bye to some one who ought to leave 
the hotel before I do. If any one should wish to insult this 
person, I recommend her to your care.” 

Gilbert understood. “ Good ! ” said he, “ I will leave you.” 

“Yes, but you will wait in the adjoining chamber, and thir 
person once gone, you will not leave me until death ?” Gilbert 
signed his assent 

“ Give me your word,” said Mirabeau. Gilbert gave it, sob- 
bing. This stoic was quite astonished to find himself in tears; 
he had believed himself, through force of philosophy, to be insen- 
sible. He then went toward the door. Mirabeau stopped 
him. 

“ Before going out,” said he, “ open my secretary and give 
me the little casket you will find there.” 

Gilbert did as Mirabeau wished. This casket was heavy. 
Gilbert thought it contained gold. Mirabeau made him a sign 
to put it on the toilet-table. He then gave him hold of his 
hand. 


WOMEN AND FLO WEES, 


261 


Will you have the goodness to send Jean to me?” he asked. 
‘'Jean, not Teisch. It fatigues me to call or ring.” 

Gilbert went out. Jean was waiting in the next chamber, 
and entered as Gilbert left. Gilbert heard the door bolted be- 
hind him. The half hour that followed was employed by Gil- 
bert in giving information to those who were in the house. A 
carriage stopped before the gate of the hotel. For a moment 
his idea was that a carriage of the court had been allowed to 
pass. He ran to the window. It would have been a sweet 
consolation to the dying man to know that the queen had 
thought of him. It was a hackney coach, which Jean had been 
to fetch. The doctor guessed for whom. In fact, some 
minutes afterwards, Jean came out, conducting a lad)-, veiled 
in a large mantle. The lady got into the carriage. The crowd, 
without troubling themr elves as to who the lady was, respectfully 
retired. Jean went into the hotel. 

A moment after, the door of the chamber opened, and the 
feeble voice of the invalid was heard inquiring for the doctor, 
Gilbert ran to him. 

“ Look !” said Mirabeau. “ Put this casket in its place, my 
dear doctor.” Then, as he seemed astonished to find it as 
heavy as at first, “ Yes,” said Mirabeau ; “ it is curious, is it 
not? Where the devil will disinterestedness come from at 
last ?” 

In approaching the bed, Gilbert found a handkerchief on the 
ground, embroidered and trimmed with lace. It was wet with 
tears. “ Ah !” said he to Mirabeau, “ if she has not taken any- 
thing she has left something.” 

Mirabeau took the handkerchief, and feeling it was wet, 
applied it to his forehcal. “ Oh !” murmured he, “she is the 
only one who has a heart !’ He fell back on his bed j his eyes 
closed as if he were already dead ; but the rattle in his chest 
showed that he was still on his way to the grave. 

From this time the few hours that Mirabeau had still to live 
were painful and agonizing. Gilbert kept his word, and re- 
mained near his bed till the last minute. ^ 

He took a glass, poured in a few drops of that green liquid of 
which he had already given a phial to Mirabeau, and without 
mixing it this time with any brandy, he put it to the lips of the 

invalid. _ • , ^ 

“ Oh, dear doctor,” said the latter, smiling, if you wnsh the 


263 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


flixii to have any effect upon me, give me a glassful, or the 
whole phial.” 

Why so ?” asked Gilbert, looking fixedly at Mirabeau 

“Do you believe that I, who have abused every treasure 
through life, would have this in my hands and not abuse it too ? 
No ! I caused your liquor, my dear sir, to be analysed, and I 
learned that it was drawn from the root of the Indian hemp ; 
and I have taken it not by drops, but by glassfuls — not to live 
alone, but to dream.” 

“Unhappy one!” murmured Gilbert, “without doubt I have 
poisoned you !” 

“ Sweet poison, dear doctor, by whose aid I have doubled, 
quadrupled the last hours of my existence — by which, in dying 
at forty-two, I have lived the life of a century. Oh, doctor, 
doctor ! do not repent, but rather be glad ! God gave me but 
a life, sad, discoloured, unhappy, deserving of little regret, and 
which man ought always to be ready to give up. Doctor, do 
you know I doubt whether I ought to thank God for my life, 
but I am sure I ought you for presenting me with your poison ? 
Fill the glass, doctor, and give it me !” 

The doctor did as Mirabeau wished, and presenting him the 
liquid, he drank it with pleasure. 

“ Thanks !” murmured he. And he sank again on his pillow. 

This time Gilbert no longer doubted his death. The abun- 
dant dose of hashish which Mirabeau had taken, like the effects 
of the voltaic pile, had given the invalid, with speech, the play 
of his muscles ; but now that he had ceased to speak, the mus- 
cles grew stiff, an I death already began to show itself in his face. 

During three hours his cold hand remained between Gilbert’s. 
During these three hours, that is, from four to seven o’clock, 
the agony was calm ; so calm that one could easily have 
thought he slept. 

But towards eight o’clock, Gilbert felt his cold hand start in 
his. The starting was violent. He could no longer deceive 
himself. “Allons,” said he, “now the struggle, the true agony 
commences.” 

And indeed the face of the invalid was covered with sweat. 
He made a motion as if he would drink. They hastened to 
offer him brandy, orangeade, water ; but he , shook his head. 
He wished for none of these. He made a sign, and they 
brought him pen, ink and paper. 



He took the I’KN, and wrote, 


‘ Vly ! Fly ! Fj.v ! ’ 






WOMEN AND FLO WEES. 263 

He took the pen, and in a scarcely legible hand WTOte— 
“Fly! fly! fly!” 

He would have signed it ; but he could only write the first 
two or three letters of his name, and stretching his arms 
towards Gilbert, “ For her,'^ he murmured. And he fell back 
on his pillow without a motion, without a look, without a groan. 
He was dead ! 

Gilbert came to his bedside, looked at him, felt his pulse, put 
his hand on his heart, then, turning to the spectators of this last 
scene, “ Gentlt-men,” said he, “Mirabeau no longer breathes.” 

And putting his lips for the last time on the forehead of the 
dead, he took the paper, whose destination he only knew, folded 
it carefully, put it in his breast, and went — not thinking it right 
to detain a single instant longer than necessary to go from 
Chaussée d’Antin to the Tuileries, the recommendation of the 
illustrious departed. 

Some seconds after the doctor left the chamber of death, a 
great clamour was raised in the street. This was the report of 
the death of Mirabeau, which was beginning to spread. 

Soon a sculptor entered ; he was sent by Gilbert, to preserve 
for posterity the features of this great orator. Some minutes of 
eternity had already given serenity to those features. Mirabeau 
was not dead. Mirabeau seemed to sleep — a sleep full of life 
and pleasant dreams. 

The grief was immense — universal. In one moment it spread 
from the Chaussée d’Antin to the barriers of Paris. It was 
eight o’clock in the morning. The people raised one terrible 
cry. They ran to the theatres, they tore down the affiches, they 
shut thé doors. 

A ball had taken place the same evening in an hotel of the 
Rue Chaussée d’Antin. They went to the hotel, dispersed the 
dancers, and broke the instruments. 

The loss which had just happened was announced to the 
National Assembly by the president. 

Barrère immediately ascended the tribune, and demanded the 
Assembly should record, in the minutes of the day, its regret for 
the loss of this great man, and insisted, in the name of the 
country, that all the members of the Assembly should assist at 
his funeral. 

I'he next day, the 3rd of April, the Department of Paris pre- 
sented itself to the National Assembly, and demanded and ob- 
tained that the church of Sainte Geneviève should be erected 


THE COUNTESS DE CIJAENY. 


2O4 

into a pantheon, and consecrated as a sepulchre for great men, 
and that the first one buried there should be Mirabeau. 

Let us give here the magnificent decree of the Assembly : 

“ Article I. The new edifice of Genevieve shall be destined 
to receive the ashes of great men, and date from the epoch of 
French liberty. 

“Article IT. The legislature shall decide to whom this 
honour shall be decreed. 

“ Article III. The honoured Riquetti Mirabeau is judged 
worthy of this honour. 

“ Article IV. The legislature cannot confer this honour 
on one of its members ; it can only be bestowed by the follow- 
ing one. 

“ Article V. The exceptions for those great men, who died 
before the revolution, can only be determined by the legislature. 

“ Article VI. The directory of the city of Paris shall be 
charged to put the edifice of Sainte Genevieve into a proper 
state for this object, and cause to be engraved on the front 
these words : 

* Our country dedicates this to her great men? 

“ Article VII. Meanwhile, the body of Riquetti Mirabeau 
shall be deposited by the side of the ashes of Descartes, in the 
vaults of the church of Sainte Geneviève.’* 

The next day, at four in the evening, the National Assembly 
left the salle of the Manege and went to the hotel of Mirabeau. 
It was attended by the directors of the departments, by all the 
ministers, and two hundred thousand people. 

But of these two hundred thousand people, no one had come 
on behalf of the queen. 

The cortege commenced to move. 

Lafayette marched at its head, as Commander-General of the 
National Guard. Then the President of the National Assembly 
— Tronchet. Then the ministers. Then the Assembly, with- 
out any party distinctions, Sieyès giving his arm to Charles de 
Lameth. After the Assembly, the Jacobin club, like a second 
assembly, which had decreed eight days of mourning, and 
Robespierre, too poor to buy a dress, had hired one, as he had 
already done for the death of Franklin. And last came the 
entire population of Paris. 

A funeral march in which, for the first time, until then un- 


WOMEN AND FLO WEES. 265 

ï^nown instruments were heard — the trombone and the tomtom 
marked the time for this numerous cortège. 

When they reached Saint Eustache it was eight o’clock. The 
funeral oration was pronounced by Cérutti ; at the last word ten 
thousand National Ciuards discharged their muskets. 

They continued their route with flambeaux. Darkness had 
fallen, and not only on to the streets, but on to the hearts that 
passed through them. 

The death of Mirabeau, in effect, w'as a political obscurity. 
Mirabeau dead — who knew whither things w'ould tend? All 
felt that he had carried with him something that was wanting in 
the Assembly. The spirit of peace watched even in the midst 
of war, the goodness of the heart lay concealed under the 
violence of the mind. All the world had lost by this death : 
the royalists no longer had a rallying point, the revolutionists 
no curb. Besides, the carriage would roll more rapidly, and the 
descent be longer. Who could say towards what it rolled — 
whether to triumph or an abyss ? 

Three years afterwards, on a dark day in autumn, not in the 
salle of the Manege, but in the salle of the Tuileries — when the 
Convention, after having killed the king, killed the queen ; after 
having killed the Girondists, after having killed the Jacobins, the 
Montagnards, after having killed itself, had nothing left to 
kill — it killed the dead. This was when, with a savage joy, it 
declared that in the judgment it had rendered upon Mirabeau it 
had been mistaken, and that in its eyes corruption could not be 
pardoned to genius. 

A new decree was made, which excluded Mirabeau from the 
Panthéon. 

An usher came, and from the steps of the temple read the 
decree which declared Mirabeau unworthy to share the sepulchre 
of Voltaire, Rousseau, and Descartes, and summoned the 
guardian of the church to deliver up the body. 

Then a voice, more terrible than that which will be heard in 
the valley of Jehosaphat, cried : 

“ Panthéon ! deliver up the dead !” 

The Panthéon obeyed. The body of Mirabeau was handed 
over to the usher, who caused it, as he said, to be takeji and de- 
posited in the usual place of burial. 

The usual place of burial was Clamart. the cemetery of the 
executed. 

And, without doubt to render the punishment v;hich pursued 


2b6 


THE COUNTESS DE CIIARNY. 


him even after death more terrible, he was buried without cros% 
stone, or inscription. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE MESSENGER. 

On this same morning of the second of April, an hour perhaps 
before Mirabeau breathed his last, a superior naval officer, 
clothed in the full uniform of a captain, and coming from the 
Rue Saint Honoré, hastened towards the Tuileries. 

Arrived there, he ascended, like a man who was familiar with 
the way, a little staircase which communicated by a long winding 
corridor with the apartments of the king. 

On perceiving him, the valet de chambre uttered a cry of sur- 
prise, almost of joy, but he, putting a finger on his mouth, asked : 

“ Can the king receive me at once ?” 

“ The king is with General Lafiryette, to wtiom he is giving 
the orders of the day,” answered the valet ; “ but as soon as 
the general has gone ” 

“ You will announce me,” said the officer. 

Oh ! that is useless. His majesty expects you ; since yester- 
day evening orders were given that you should be introduced as 
soon as you arrived.” 

At this moment a bell rung in the cabinet of the king. 
“ There !” said the valet de chambre, “ the king is probably 
ringing to inquire about you.” 

“ Go, then, M. Huet, and do not lose any time if the king is 
at liberty to see me.” 

The valet de chambre opened the door, and almost im- 
mediately — proof that the king was alone — announced, “ M. le 
Comte de Charny.” 

“ Oh, let him come in ! let him come in ! I have waited for 
him since yesterday.” 

Charny advanced quickly, and approaching the king, “ Sire,” 
said he, “ I am, as it seems, late by some hours, but I hope that 
when I have informed your majesty of the causes of this delay 
you will pardon me.” 

“ Come, come, M. de Charny. I was expecting you with 
impatience, it is true, but I acknowledged at once that it could 
only be something of impo’ tance that could make your journey 


THE MESSENGER, 


267 


!e««! rrpîd than it has been — so now you are welcome. ” And he 
gave the count his hand, which the latter kissed respectfully. 

“ Sire,” continued Charny, who saw the impatience of the 
king, “ I received your order the day before yesterday, in the 
middle of the night, and I left Montmédy yesterday, at three 
o’clock in the morning.” 

“ How did you come ?’^ “ By post.” 

That explains the few hours you are late,” said the king, 
smiling. 

“ Sire,” said Charny, “ I could have come back on horse- 
back, it is true, and in this way I should have been here by ten 
or eleven o’clock in the evening, and even sooner, by taking the 
direct route ; but I wanted to know the chances, good and bad, 
of the route your majesty has chosen — what posts were well or 
badly served. I wished to know, too, the time to a minute, 
almost to a second, it took to go from Montmédy to Paris, and 
consequently from Paris to Montmédy. I have noted all, and 
am now able to answer all your questions.” 

“ Bravo, M. de Charny !” said the king, “ you are an ad- 
mirable servant : only let me tell you how we are here, and then 
you shall tell me bow you get cn down there at Montmédy.” 

“ Oh, sire !” said Charny, “ if I may judge by what I have 
already seen, things go on very badly.” 

“ To such a point that 1 am a prisoner in the Tuileries, my 
dear count ! I just now said to this dear M. Lafayette, my 
jailer, ‘ I should like better to be King of Metz than King of 
France ’ ; but happily you see me !” 

“ His majesty will do me honour by putting me au courant 
with the situation things are in.” 

“ Yes, in two words. You have heard of the flight of my 
aunts ?” 

“Like all the world, sire ; but without any details.” 

“ Ah, mon Dieu ! it is very simple. You know that the 
Assembly would only allow us sworn priests. Well, the poor 
women got frightened at the approach of Easter. They believed 
they were risking their souls by confessing to a priest of the 
constitution, and — on my advice, I admit — they started for 
Rome. There was no law against this journej’’, and they could 
not be afraid that two poor old women could strengthen the 
party of emigrants much. Narbonne arranged the whole 
matter, but I do not know how he managed ; everything was 
ready, when they were visited cn the evening of their departure, 


268 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


at Bellevue, in the same way that we were at Versailles on the 
5th of October. Fortunately, they got out of one door while 
all the canaille arrived by another. Do you understand ? No 
carriage was ready ! Three ought to have been there, near the 
stables. They were obliged to go to Meudon on foot ; there 
they found carriages at last, and started. Three hours, after- 
wards there was a great uproar in Paris. Those who had wished 
to stop this fright had found the nest warm, but empty. The 
press was very fierce next day. Marat declared they had run 
off with millions, Desmoulins that they had taken the dauphin 
away. Nothing of all this was true ; the poor women had some 
three or four hundred thousand francs in their purse, and they 
were troubled enough with this, without having to take care of 
a child that would have at once betrayed them. As it was, they 
were recognised : first at Moret — they let them pass ; then at 
Arnay le Duc, where they were stopped. I wrote of this to the 
Assembly, and in spite of my letter they were discussing the 
matter the whole day. At last, however, they were permitted 
to proceed, but on the condition that a committee presented a 
law against all such emigration.” 

“ Yes,” said Charny, “ but I thought that, owing to a magnifi- 
cent speech of M. de Mirabeau, the Assembly had rejected the 
la V proposed by the committee ?” 

“ Without doubt it was rejected. But along with this little 
triumph there was a great humdiation. Some devoted friends 
— and I have more than I thought, my dear count — when they 
saw the racket wliich the departure of the two ladies made, 
hastened to the Tuileries and offered me their lives. Soon a 
rumour spread that there was a plot on foot to carry me off. 
Lafayette, whom they had sent to the Faubourg Saint Antoine, 
under the pretence that the Bastile ivoald be attacked, furious 
at being duped, returned to the Tuileries, entered it with sword 
and bayonet, and arresting our poor friends, disarmed them. 
Some had pistols, some small swords. Each had taken what- 
ever he could lay his hands on. Good ; the day will be known 
in history under a new name — it will be called ‘La Journée 
des Chevaliers du Poignard’ (‘ The Day of the Knights of the 
Dagger’).” 

“Oh, sire, sire ! what dreadful times we live in !” said Charny, 
shaking his head. 

“ But listen. We go every year to Saint Cloud. The day 
before yesterday we ordered the carriages, descended, and found 


THE A/ESSEHGEE. 


269 


fifteen hundred peisons around the carriages. We got in; it 
was impossible : the people, seizing the reins, declared that I 
wished to fly. After trying uselessly for an hour, we were 
obliged to return. The queen wept with anger.” 

“ But was not General Lafayette there to maintain order, and 
make them respect your majesty ?” 

“ Lafayette ! Do you know what he did ? He caused the 
tocsin at Saint Roch to be rung; he ran to the Hôtel de Ville, 
and asked for the red flag to declare the country in danger ! 
The country in danger, forsooth, because the king and queen 
wslel to go to Saint Cloud! Do you know who refused to 
give him the red flag ? who tore it from his hands ? — Danton ; 
he then pretended that Danton was bought — that I had given 
him a hundred thousand francs. You see now, my dear count, 
how we are fixed, letting alone that Mirabeau is dying, nay, at 
this very moment may be dead.” 

“ So much the more reason that we should quicken our 
movements, sire.” 

“d'hat is what we will do. Let us see what you have deter- 
mined with Bouillé ? The affair at Nancy has given me the 
opportunity of increasing his command and putting new troops 
under his orders.” 

“ YeSj sire : but unfortunately the orders of the Minister ot 
War have run counter to yours. He has withdrawn a regiment 
of hussars, and he has refused to allow any of the Swiss guards 
to ga there. It has been only with great trouble that Bouillé 
has been able to keep the regiment of Bouillon infantry.” 

‘‘ Then he is still doubtful ?” 

“ No, sire ; there are a few chances less, but no matter ! In 
such enterprises we must always stand the hazard of the die, 
and we have still, if the enterprise is well conducted, ninety 
chances out of the hundred.” 

“ Well, then, let us see.” 

“ Sire, your majesty is still determined to follow the route 
through Châlons, Sainte Menehould, Clermont, and Stenay, 
although this route is at least twenty leagues further than the 
other, and there is no post at Varennes ?” 

“ I have already told M. de Bouillé the reason why I prefer 
this road.” 

“ Yes, sire, and on this subject he has transmitted us the 
orders of your majesty. After these orders the route was 


«70 


TUE COUNTESS DE CiiARNY. 


thoroughly examined by me, bush by bush, stone by stone , the 
result ought to be in the hands of your majesty.” 

“ And it is a model of clearness. I know the road as well as 
if I had made it myself.” 

“Now, sire, see what the researches of my last journey have 
added to the rest.” 

“ Speak, M. de Charny, I listen ; and for greater clearness, 
here is the map drawn by yourself” And saying these words, 
the king drew a map from a portfolio and spread it out on the 
table. This map was not traced, but designed by the hand, and 
as Charny had said, scarce a tree, a stone, was wanting \ it was 
the result of more than eight months’ labour. 

Charny and the king leant over the map. “ Sire,” said Charny, 
“the real danger will commence at Sainte Menehould, and ter- 
minate at Stenay. It is over these eighteen leagues that we 
must station our detachment.” 

“ Could we not let them cOme nearer Paris, M. de Charny ? 
as far as Chalons, for instance ?” 

“ Sire,” said Charny, “ that would be difficult. Chalons is 
too strong a town for forty, fifty, a hundred men even, to effect 
anything for your majesty’s safety, if that safety were menaced ; 
and besides, all that M. de Bouillé can do is to place a detach- 
ment at Pont de Someville, here, your majesty, at the first post 
after Chalons.” And Charny pointed with his finger to the 
place on the map. 

“ Let it be so,” said the king ; “ in ten or eleven hours we 
can be at Chalons. How many hours has it taken you to come 
the eighty-six leagues ?” 

“ Thirty-six hours, sire.” 

“ But in a light carriage, where there were only you and a 
single servant.” 

“ Sire, I lost three hours in examining whereabouts at Varennes 
the relay should be placed, whether on this side of the town, 
near Sainte Menehould, or on the other, near Dun. These 
three hours will compensate for the extra weight of the carriage. 
My opinion is that your majesty can go from Paris to Montmédy 
in thirty-five or thirty-six hours.” 

“ And what have you decided about the relay at Varennes ? 
It is an important point — we must never want horses.” 

“ Yes, sire, and my advice is that the relay ought io be placed 
beyond the town, near Dun.” 

“On what do you found your opinion?” 


THE MESSENGER, 


271 


“Upon the situation of the town itself, sire.” 

** Explain to me this situation, count.” 

“ The thing is very easy, sire. I have passed five or six times 
through Varennes since I left Paris, and yesterday I was there 
three hours. Varennes is a little town of about six hundred 
inhabitants, divided by a river into two parts ; one the High 
Town, the other the Low Town; these communicate with each 
other by a bridge over the river Aire. This bridge is com- 
manded by a high tower. There the least thing could stop the 
passage. It would be better, then, to cross the bridge with the 
horses coming from Clermont, than to run the risk of your 
majesty being recognized while we changed. The bridge could 
be barred by three or four men.” 

“You are right, count,” said the king; “besides, in case of 
hesitation, you will be there.” 

“ This will be at once a duty and an honour, if the king should 
deem me worthy.” 

The king again stretched his hand tow^ard Charny. 

“ So,” said the king, “ M. de Bouille has already marked the 
stages and chosen the men to superintend my route ?” 

“ If your majesty approves, yes, sire.” 

“ Have you made any note on the subject ?” 

Charny took a folded paper from his pocket and presented it 
to the king. 

“ It seems good,” said the king, after having read it. “ But 
if these detachments should be obliged to stay three or f )ur 
days in these towms and villages, what excuse will be made ?” 

“ Sire, the excuse is already formed. They will have to attend 
on an escort bearing money from the minister to the army of 
the North.” 

“Allons,” said the king, with lively satisfaction, “all is fore- 
seen !” 

Charny bowed. 

At this moment the door opened. The king turned round 
quickly, for the opening of this door w^as an infraction of the 
rules of etiquette, which was a great insult if it was not excused 
by a great necessity. 

It was the queen ; she w^as pale, and held a paper in her 
hand. But. at the sight of the count, she utteied a cry of 
astonishment. 

Charny arose and saluted the queen respectfully, who mut- 
tered between her teeth : “ M. de Charny ! M. de Charny 1 


272 


THE COUXTESS DE CIIARNY. 


— here ! — with the king! — at the Tuileries!” and then she added, 
in a low voice : “ And I not know it !” 

There was so much grief in the eyes of the poor woman, that 
although Charny had not heard the last words, he guessed them, 
and advanced two steps towards her. 

She held out her hands as if she were going to him, but 
almost immediately put one on her heart, which doubtless 
beat violently. 

Charny saw all. The king had, in the meanwhile, taken up 
the paper that had escaped from the queen’s hands. He read 
what was written on this paper, but without being able to under- 
stand it. 

“ What do these three words mean — ‘ Fly ! Fly ! Fly ! — and 
this signature half written ?” 

“Sire,” replied the queen, “they mean that M. de Mirabeau 
has been dead for the last ten minutes, and that this is the last 
advice he gives us.” 

“ Madame,” said the king, “ the advice which he gives shall 
be followed, for it is good, and the moment is approaching 
when we must put it into execution.” 

Then, turning to Charny ; “ Count,” he continued, “ you can 
follow the queen to her apartments, and tell her all.” 

The queen rose, looking now at the king, now at Charny, and 
addressed the latter : “ Come, M. le Comte,” said she. 

And she went out as quickly as possible, for she could not 
have suppressed the various emotions within her a minute 
longer. Charny bowed to the king, and followed Marie 
Antoinette. 

The queen entered her apartments, and sank down on a sola 
as she made a sign to Charny to fasten the door. 

Scarcely was she seated before she sobbed. 

She wept for weeping’s sake. Her tears would have choked 
her else. She wept without speaking a word. Was it joy or 
grief? Something of each, perhaps. 

Then, without saying anything, with more love than respect, 
Charny approached the queen, and drawing one of her hands 
from her face, covered it with kisses, saying, “ Madame, I assure 
you that since the day I took leave of you, a day has not passed 
but that I have occupied myself with you one hour.” 

“ Oh, Charny ! Charny !” replied the queen, “ there was a 
time when you were less occupied with me, but thought more.” 

“ Madame,” said Charny,. “a great responsibility was. laid on 


THE MESSEA^CER 


273 


me by the king. This responsibility imposed silence on me 
until all was completed. It is finished to-day only. To-day I 
can see you again — can halt with you. Until to-day I could 
not even write to you.” 

“It is a great instance of loyalty, this which you have given, 
but I regret that you have done it at the expense of another 
sentiment.” 

“ Madame,” said Charny, “ since I have received the per- 
mission of the king, allow me to inform you of all I have done 
for your safety.” 

He related all to her; how he had been sent to M. de 
Bouillé ; how Count Louis had come to Paris ; how he, 
Charny, had examined the route by which the queen must fly, 
and finally, how he came to announce to the king that there 
was nothing to prevent them putting the project at once into 
execution. 

I he queen heard Charny with great attention, and at the 
same time with profound gratitude. It seemed to her that 
devotion only could go so far. Love, an ardent and burning 
love, could only overcome these obstacles, and invent the 
means by which they were surmounted. 

She let him speak to the end. I'hen, when he had finished, 
looking at him with a profound expression of tenderness, “You 
will then be very glad to save me, Charny ?” she asked. 

“Oh !” cried the count, “can you ask me that, madame? It 
is the dream of my ambition, and if I succeed it shall be the 
glory of my life.” 

“ I had rather it snould be the recompense of your love,” 
said the queen sadly. “ But n’importe ! You wish, do you 
not, that this great w'ork of saving the king, the queen, and the 
dauphin of France should be accomplished by you ?” 

“ I only wait your assent to devote myself to it.” 

“Yes, I understand, my friend,” said the queen, “this 
devotion ought to be free from every foreign sentiment, and 
every material affection. It is impossible that my husband, my 
children, can be saved by a hand which dare not extend itself 
to them to sustain them, if they should slip in this route we are 
about to travel together. I place their life and mine in your 
hands, my brother ; but in your turn, will you not have pity 
on me ?” 

“ Pity on you, madame ?” said Charny.' 

“ Yes, you would not that at this time, when I require all my 

18 




THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


Strength, all my courage, all my presence of mind, you would 
not, I say, that all this should be lost, perhaps for want of a 
pledged word ? You would not, would you ?” 

Charny interrupted the queen. “ Madame,” said he, ** I 
wish your majesty to be safe ; I wish the good of France ; I 
wish the glory of perfecting the work I have commenced ; and, 
I avow it to you, I am grieved to have such a small sacrifice 
only to offer you : I swear not to see Madame de Charny save 
with your permission.” 

And respectfully and coldly saluting the queen, he withdrew, 
without the latter, numbed by the accent with which he had 
pronounced these words, attempting to detain him. 

But Charny had scarcely shut the door behind him, than, 
stretching out her arms, she cried painfully : 

“Oh ! I had rather it had been I that he had sworn never 
to see, and that he had loved me as he loves her 1” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

DOUBLE SIGHT. 

On the 19th of June following, towards eight in the morning, 
Gilbert was walking at a great rate backwards and forwards in 
his rooms in the Rue St. Honoré, going from time to time to 
the window, and looking out like a man who expects some one 
with impatience, and wishes to see him arrive. 

He held in his hand a paper folded in four, with the letters 
and seals shining through on to the other side from that on 
which they were printed. It was without doubt a paper of great 
importance, for two or three times during these anxious minutes 
of waiting, Gilbert unfolded it, read it, and re-folded it; unfolded 
it again, re-read it, and again refolded it, only, however, to open 
it and read it again. 

At length the sound of a carriage stopping at the door made 
him run quickly to the window, but he was too late : he who 
had got out of the carriage was already in the passage. 

“ Bastien !” said he, “ open the door for M. le Comte de 
Charny, for whom I wait.” 

An i a last time he unfolded the paper, which he was in the 


DOUBLE SICIÎT. 


275 


act of reading, when Bpstien, instead of announcing the Cointe 
de Charny, announced M. le Comte de Cagliostro. 

This name was at the time so far from the thoughts of Gilbert, 
that he starred as if thunderstruck. 

He quickly refolded the paper, which he concealed in his 
side coat-pocket. 

“ M- le Comte de Cagliostro !” he repeated, quite astonished. 

“ Eh, mon Dieu ! yes, myself, my dear Gilbert,” said the count, 
“ I am not the one you expect, 1 know well, for that is M. de 
Charnv ; but M. de Charny is engaged — I will tell you in what 
directly — so that he cannot manage to be here within less than 
half an hour, and knowing this I said, ‘Since I am in this 
quarter, I will just step up and see Doctor Gilbert.’ I hope, 
however, although not expected, that I am welcome.” 

“ Dear master,” said Gilbert, “ you know that night and morn- 
ing, at every hour, two doors are open to you here : that of the 
house and that of the heart.” 

“ I'hanks, Gilbert ! I, too, perhaps, shall be called upon to 
show how much I love you, and should such a day ever come, 
the proof shall not be wanting. Now let us talk.” 

“And of what?” asked Gilbert, smiling; for Cagliostro s 
presence always brought something astonishing with it. 

“ Of what ?” repeated Cagliostro, “ of that great topic of dis- 
cussion, the king’s departure.” 

Gilbert felt himself freeze from head to foot ; but the smile did 
not disappear for a single moment from his lips. 

“And as we shall have some time of it, let us sit down,” 
continued Cagliostro. 

And Cagliostro sat down. 

The first moment of terror past, Gilbert reflected, that if it were 
chance that had brought Cagliostro to see him, it was at least a 
fortunate one. Cagliostro, not being in the habit of keeping 
secrets to himself, would without doubt relate all that he knew 
about the departure of the king and queen, which he had juit 
mentioned. 

“ Well !” continued Cagliostro, seeing Gilbert waiting, “ it is 
then decided to start to-morrow?” 

“ My dear master,” said Gilbert, “ you know I am in the habit 
of letting you talk to the end, and even if you err there is always 
something for me to learn.” 

“ And when have I been mistaken, up to now, Gilbert ?” said 
Cagliostro. “Was it when I predicted the death of Favras, whom,. 


270 


THE COUNTESS DE CNA R N Y. 


up to the very last moment, I tried to save ? Was it when 1 told 
you that the king himself was intriguing against Mirabeau, and 
that Mirabeau would not be minister ? Was it when I told you 
that Robespierre would re-erect the scaffold of Charles the 
First, and Bonaparte the throne of Charlemagne? As to this 
last, you can accuse me of no error, because the time has not 
yet passed by, and, moreover, these things belong to the next 
century ; and to-day, more than anyone else, you know that 
I speak the truth when I say that during to-morrow night the 
king will fly — for you are one of the agents.” 

“ If it be so,” said Gilbert, “ you do not expect that I should 
avow it, do you ?” 

“And what need have I of your avowal? You know M^ell 
that I am not only he who is^ but more, that I am heiv/io knows."* 

“ But if you are he who knows,” said Gilbert, “ you know what 
the queen said yesterday, àpropos of the refusal of Madame to 
attend the Fête Dieu next Sunday, to M. de Montmorin : ‘ I am 
sorry she will not go with us to Saint Germain FAuxerrois — she 
might well sacrifice her opinions for the king.’ So if the queen 
goes on Sunday with the king to the church of Saint Germain 
I’Auxerrois, they cannot go to-night, nor go on a long journey.” 

“ Yes, but I know also,” said Cagliostro, “that a great philo- 
sopher has said, ‘ Speech was given to man to conceal his 
thoughts and God is not so exclusive as to have given to man 
alone a gift so precious.” 

“ My dear master,” said Gilbert, “ you know the history of 
the incredulous apostle ?” 

“ Who began to believe when Christ showed him his feet, his 
hands, and side. Well, my dear Gilbert, the queen, who is in 
the habit of considering her ease, and who does not wish to 
undergo any deprivation during the journey, however short it may 
be, if the calculation of M. de Charny is correct, the queen has 
ordered at Desbrosses, Rue Nôtre Dame des Victoires, a charm- 
ing necessaire in silver-gilt, which is thought to be intended for her 
sister, the Archduchess Christine. The necessaire, bought yester- 
day morning only, was sent yesterday evening to the Tuileries. 
They are going in a large, roomy travelling carriage, which will 
hold six people. It has been ordered of Louis, the first builder 
in the Champs Elysées, by M. de Charny, who is with him at this 
very moment, paying him twenty-five louis, that is to say, the 
half of the sum agreed for. The report, also, of M. Isidor de 
Charny was not bad. M. de Montmorin, without knowing w hut 


DOUBLE SIGHT, 


277 


ît was, signed this morning a passport for Madame la Baronne de 
Korff, her two children, her two maids, her steward, and three 
servants. Madame de Korff is Madame de Tourzel, governess 
of the children of France ; her two children are Madame Royale, 
and Monsieur the Dauphin ; her two women are the queen and 
Madame Elizabeth; her steward is the king; lastly, her three 
domestics, who, habited as couriers, intend to precede and ac- 
company the carriage, are M. Isidor de Charny, M. de Malden, 
and M. de Valory. That passport is the paper you held in your 
hand when I entered, which you folded and put in your pocket, 
and which is conceived in thes e terms : . 

“ On behalf of the king. 

We command all to let pass Madame le Baronne de Korff, 
with her two children, one woma7i^ one valet de chambre, and 
three servants, 

“ The Minister of Foreign Affairs, 

“ Montmorin.” 

“ Am I well informed, my dear Gilbert ?” 

“ Except a little contradiction between your words and the 
passport.” 

“ Which ?” 

“You said that the queen and Madame Elizabeth represented 
the two femmes de chambre of Madame de Tourzel, and I see 
but a single woman mentioned in the passport.” 

“ Ah ! 1 see ! Arrived at Bondy, Madame de Tourzel, who 
thinks to go to Montmedy, will be asked to descend. The 
queen will then become Madame de Korff, and then, as there 
will be only one ivo7nan^ and she Madame Elizabeth, it would 
be useless to put two on the passport. Now, would you like 
more details? I will give you some. The journey ought to 
have taken place before the ist of June; M. de Bouillé wished 
it much — he even wrote to the king about it in a very pressing 
letter, adding that the troops were bemg corrupted from day to 
day. By these words, being corrupted^ he meant that the army 
was beginning to understand its having to choose between a 
monarchy which had for three centuries sacrificed the people to 
the nobility, the soldier to the officer, and a constitution which 
proclaimed equality before the law, which recognised merit and 
courage. But the carriage and other things were not ready, 
and it was therefore impossible to start on the ist of June. 
This was a great misfortune, for since the ist of June the army 
has become more corrupted, and the troops are ready to swear 


278 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


to the constitution. The departure was then fixed for the 
eighth ; but M. de Bouillé received notice of this date too late, 
and in his turn he was obliged to answer that he was not ready. 
Then the twelfth was chosen. They would have preferred the 
eleventh, but a woman, very democratic, and, moreover, mistress 
of M. de Gouvoin, aide-de-camp to M. de Lafayette, Madame 
de Rochereul, if you would know her name, was in close attend- 
ance on the dauphin, and they feared she would see something 
and denounce them. On the twelfth the king perceived he had 
only six days to wait to get possession of a quarter of his yearly 
civil list — six millions. Peste ! you understand w^ell the trouble 
of waiting those six days, my dear Gilbert. In brief, the de- 
parture was put off until Sunday, the nineteenth, at midnight ; 
but on the eighteenth a despatch arrived putting off this de- 
parture until Monday the twentieth, at the same hour, that is to 
say, to-morrow evening. This, too, may have its own incon- 
veniences. M. de Bouillé had already sent his orders to the 
detachments, and now he must send counter orders. Take 
care, my dear Gilbert, take care ; all this wearies the soldiers, and 
makes the people think.” 

“ Count,” said Gilbert, “ I shall not deceive you ; all that you 
have said is true. Now, considering his personal danger, and 
that of the queen and his children, if the king would remain, 
tell me frankly whether as king, man, husband, father, you do 
not think him justified in flying ?” 

“ Well, do you wish me to tell you one thing, my dear 
Gilbert ? It is not as a father, it is not as a husband, it is not 
as a man, that Louis XVI. flies. It is net on account of the 
5th of October that he leaves France. No; he is a Bourbon, 
and the Bourbons know how to look danger in the face. No ; 
he leaves France on account of this Constitution, which, at the 
instance of the United States, the National Assembly is about 
to form, without reflecting that the model it follows is adapted 
for a republic, and applied to a monarchy does not leave the 
king breathing room. No ! he leaves France on account of 
that famous affair of the Knights of the Poniard, in which your 
friend Lafayette acted so irreverently towards the king. No, 
my dear Gilbert, you are honestly, frankly, a constitutional 
royalist — you believe in that sweet, consoling Utopia of a 
monarchy tempered by liberty. You should know one thing, 
and that is this : kings, in imitation of God, whom they pretend 
to represent on the earth, have a religion of their own— the 


DOUBLE SIGHT, 




279 

religion ot royalty; and the day on which the people prevented 
the king from going to Saint Cloud, and that on which they ex- 
pelled the Knights of the Poniard from the Tuileries, this 
religion was touched — was broken in upon — and this is what the 
king cannot bear ; that is the true abomination ; this is w’hy the 
king, who had refused to be carried off by M. de Favras, and to 
save himself with his aunt, consents to fly to-morrow with a pass- 
port of M. de Montmorin, who knows not for whom he signed 
it, under the name of Durand and in the dress of a domestic ; 
always reminding them, how^ever — kings will be kings to the 
end — to put the red coat embroidered with gold that he wore 
at Cherbourg into the portmanteaus.” 

Gilbert resolved to speak frankly on the matter. 

“ Count,” observed he, “ all you say is true, I admit. Now, 
why have you come to tell me this ? Under what title do you 
present yourself to me ? Do you come as a loyal enemy in- 
viting me to battle, or do you come as a friend to aid me ?” 

“ I come, my dear Gilbert, in the first place,” said Cagliostro, 
kindly, “as the master comes to the pupil, to say : ‘My friend, 
you were wrong in attaching yourself to this falling ruin called 
monarchy. Men like you do not belong to the past or even to 
the present ; they are the property of the future. Abandon 
w'hat you do not believe in for what you know. Do not let fall 
the reality for the shadow ; and if you do not become an active 
soldier of the revolution, let it pass by and do not attempt 
to check it.' Mirabeau was a giant but he failed.” 

“ Count,” said Gilbert, “ I will reply to that on the day that 
the king, who has confided in me, shall be safe. Louis XVI. 
has taken me as a confidant, as an auxiliary, as an accomplice, 
if you please — I have accepted this mission, and will fulfil it 
openly. I am a physician, my friend, and to me the material 
health of my patient is an object of primary consideration. Now 
answer me : in your mysterious plans and dark combinations, is 
it necessary that this succeed or tail ? If you wish it to fail, say 
so, for it w’ill be useless to go. Say ‘ Do not go,' and we will 
remain, bend our heads, and await the blow.” 

“ Brother,” said Cagliostro, “ if impelled by the God who 
has placed me on the route, it were necessary for me to strike 
those whom your heart loves, I w^ould remain in the shadow 
and ask but one thing of the superhuman pow'er I obey : that 
you might be ignorant whence the blow w’as w’inged. No ; if I 
do not come as a friend — I cannot be the friend of kings, whose 


28 o 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


victim I have been — I do not come as an enemy. I come with a 
balance in my hand, and say 1 have weighed the fortunes of the 
last Bourbon, and I do not believe his death is important to the 
cause. Now, God forbid that I, who like Pythagoras think 1 
have no right to take away the life of the merest insect, should 
destroy that of a lord of creation. There is none. But I come 
not only to say I will be neuter, but to offer you my aid, if you 
need it.” 

Gilbert tried a second time to read the heart of Cagliostro. 

“ Good,” said the latter, in resuming his tone of raillery ; 
“ now you doubt. Let us see, thou -man of letters, dost thou 
not remember the story of Achilles’ spear, that wounded and 
cured ? I possess this lance. The woman who has passed as 
the queen in the shrubberies of Versailles, cannot she also pass 
for the queen in the apartments of the Tuileries, or on some 
route in the opposite direction to that which the true fugitive 
follows. Now, what I have just offered you is not to be 
despised, my dear Gilbert.” 

Be frank, count, even to the end, and tell me with what 
object you have made me this offer.” 

“ Why, my dear doctor, it is a very simple one : in order that 
the king may quit France — ^that he may go — and so that we 
may be able to proclaim the republic.” 

‘ The republic ?” said Gilbert, astonished. 

“ Why not ? ” said Cagliostro. 

“ But, my dear count, I look around me in France, north and 
south, east and west, and I do not see a single republican.” 

“ There you are mistaken. I see three. Petion, Camille 
Desmoulins, and your humble servant Those you can see, as 
I do ; but I see those you do not see, but whom you will see 
when the time appears. Then rely upon me to produce a 
theatrical effect which will surprise you. I desire only that in 
the changes there may be no serious accident Accidents 
always happen to the machinist” 

Gilbert reflected for an instant He then gave his hand to 
Cagliostro. Count,” said he, “ were I only concerned — w^ere 
my life, my honour, reputation, and memory only at stake — I 
would accept at once. But as a kingdom, a king, a queen, a 
race, a monarchy are at stake, I cannot undertake to act for 
them. Remain neuter, my dear count, that is all I ask.” 

Cagliostro smiled. “ Yes,” said he, “ I understand. Well, 
Gilbert, the man of the necklace is about to give you advice.” 


DOUBLE SIGHT. 


281 


“ Silence !” said Gilbert, “ some one rings.” 

“ What of that ? You know that person is the Count de 
Charny. Both he and you may profit by my advice. Enter, 
count.” 

Charny, in fact, appeared at the door. Seeing a stranger, 
when he had expected to see only Gilbert, he paused for a 
moment. 

“ This advice,” said Cagliostro, “ is this. Do without two 
heavy carriages and two striking likenesses. Adieu, Gilbert ; 
adieu, count ; and, to use a common phrase, I wish you a plea- 
sant journey. May God keep you in his holy charge 1 ” 

The prophet bowed kindly and courteously to Charny, and re- 
tired. The count looked anxiously after him. 

“ Who is that man, doctor ?” asked Charny, as soon as his 
steps were no longer heard. 

“ One of my friends, a man who knows, and who has pro- 
mised not to betray me.” 

“ What is his name ?” 

Gilbert hesitated a moment. “ He is the Baron Zanoni.” 

“ Strange ! I do not know the name, but it seems to me I re* 
member the face. Have you a passport?” 

“ Here it is, count.” 

Charny took the passport, and becoming completely absorbed 
by the attention this important document required, for the 
moment, at least, forgot Zanonl 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE EVENING OF JUNE THE TWENTIETH. 

Not without reason had distrust of Madame Rochereul been 
exhibited. Though her service had ceased on the nth, she 
had continued, somehow or other, to return to the capital, and 
she had discovered, though the jewel cases of the queen were 
in their places, that the diamonds were gone : they had, in fact, 
been given by the queen to her hairdresser, Leonard, who was 
to set out on the 20th, a few hours before his august mistress, 
with M. de Choiseul, commander of the first detachment of 
soldiers, posted at the bridge of Someville, who also had charge 
of the relays at Varennes, composed of six good horses, awaiting 


202 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


the final orders of the queen and king. It was, perhaps, indis 
creet to trouble De Choiseul with Leonard, and imprudent to 
take a hairdresser with her. But who abroad could have 
dressed her hair as Leonard did ? A hairdresser who is a man 
of genius is not easily given up. 

The consequence was, that the chambermaid of the dauphin, 
not doubting but that the escape would be made on Monday, 
the 2oth, at eleven o’clock, not only informed M. de Gouvion 
of the matter, but Bailly also. 

Lafayette had gone to find the king, and to have a frank 
explanation of the matter with him, simply shrugging up his 
shoulders. 

Bailly had done better. While Lafayette became blind as 
an astronomer, Bailly became courteous as a knight ; he even 
sent the queen the letter of Madame RochereuL 

M. de Gouvion, who was much interested, was very suspi- 
cious. Having learned all from his mistress, under the pretext 
of a military réunion, he had assembled a dozen officers of the 
National Guard, placed five or six as videttes at each door, and 
himself, with five majors, undertook the surveillance of the 
doors of M. de Villequier, which had been specially pointed out 
to him. 

About the same hour, at No. 9, Rue Coq-Heron, in a room 
w'e are all acquainted with, sat on a sofa a young and beautiful 
woman, apparently calm, but in fact deeply excited, who talked 
with a young man of twenty-three or four, clad in a courier’s 
vest of chamois, pantaloons of leather, a pair of boots, and 
armed with a couteau de chasse. 

The young woman insisted on something which the young 
man denied. 

“ But, vicomte, why, during the last two months, since he 
has come to Paris, has he not come himself?” 

“ My brother, madame, has ofien sent you messages.” 

“ I know he has, and am grateful to him for doing so. It 
seems to me, though, that now he might have come himself.” 

“ Madame, it was impossible, and therefore he sent me.” 

“ And will your journey be long ?” 

“ I do not know, madame.” 

“ I say so to you, count, because from your costume I think 
you are about to set out.” 

“ In all probability, madame, I shall have left Paris at mid- 
night.” 


THE EVENING Of /UNE THE TIVENTIETIT. 283 

** Do you go with your brother, or in an opposite direction?” 

“ I think, madame, that we go in an opposite direction.” 

“Will you tell him that you have seen me ?” 

“Yes, madame, for from the anxiety he exhibited when he 
sent me to you, and his reiterated orders not to return until 
I had spoken to you, he would not pardon me for any act of 
omission.” 

The young woman passed her hands over her eyes and said, 
after a moment’s reflection : 

“Vicomte, you are a gentleman, and will understand all I 
say to you. Tell me, will you answer me as if I were really 
your sister, and answer me as if you spoke to God? Does M. 
de Charny incur any serious danger in the journey he under- 
takes ?” 

“ Who can tell, madame ?” said Isidor, seeking to elude the 
question, “ where danger does and does not exist ? On the 
morning of the 5th of October, our poor brother George, had 
he been questioned, would have been confident that he saw no 
danger. On the next day he lay pale and dead at the queen’s 
door. Danger, madame, in the age we are in, springs from the 
earth, and we often stand face to face with death, without 
knowing why.” 

Andrée grew pale. 

“ Then his life is in danger, count ?” 

“ I did not say so, madame.” 

“ But you think so ?” 

“ I think, madame, that if you have anything important to 
say to my brother, the enterprise we are engaged in is serious 
enough for you to transmit viva voce, by me, your thought or 
wish.” 

“ It is well, count ; I ask but five minutes of you.” She entered 
the chamber and closed the door behind her. 

The young man looked anxiously at his w^atch. “A quarter 
past nine,” said he. “ The king awaits usât half-past. Happily 
it is but a step to the Tuileries.” 

The countess did not, however, use as much time as she 
asked. After a few moments she entered with a sealed letter 
in her hand. “Vicomte, I confide this to your honour.” 

Isidor reached forth his hand to take the letter. 

“ Wait a moment,” said Andrée, “ and understand w'hat I 
say. If your brother meet with no accident in the journey he 
meditates, nothing need be said but what I have told you, that 


2S4 


THE COUATESS DE CIIARNY, 


I sympathize with his loyalty, respect his devotion, and admire 
his character. If he be wounded,” Andrée’s voice changed 
noticeably, “ ask him to permit me to join him, and if he grant 
me that favour, send me a message so that I may certainly 
know where to find him, for I will set out at once. If he be 
mortally wounded,” emotion almost stifled Andrée’s voice, 
“ give him this letter ; if he cannot read it, do so for him, for 
before he dies I wish him to know the contents of this letter. 
Give me your word, vicomte, that you will do what I ask you.” 

Isidor, deeply moved as the countess was, gave her his hand. 
“ On my honour, madame,” said he. 

“ Then take this letter, and go.” 

Isidor took the letter, pressed the countess’s hand, and 
left. 

Just as Isidor read this letter and placed it in his bosom, two 
men, dressed precisely as he was, passed him at the corner of 
the Rue Coquilliere, and seemed to be going in the same 
direction — that is, towards the boudoir of the queen. 

Both were introduced, and almost at the same time, by two 
different doors ; the first introduced was M. de Valory. 

Afew seconds after, anotherdoor was opened, and M. de Valory 
saw another person enter. The two officers were unacquainted. 
Presuming, however, they were both called for the same purpose, 
they approached and bowed. Just then a third door opened, 
and Isidor de Charny appeared. He was the third courier, 
also unknown to the other two, but knowing who they were, and 
he alone knew why they were sent for. 

He was preparing himself to answer any questions which 
might be put to him, when, the door opened and the king 
appeared. 

“ Messieurs,” said Louis XVI., speaking to M. de Malden 
and M. de Valory, “ excuse my having used you without per- 
mission, but I thought, belonging to my guards, you were faithful 
subjects. I wished you to go to a tailor, the address of whom 
I gave you, and each get a courier’s dress, and to be at the 
Tuileries to-night at half-past nine. Your presence satisfies me 
that whatever be the question at stake, you will undertake what 
I request of you.” 

The two gardes de corps bowed. 

“ Sire, your majesty knows you may command your nobles 
without consulting them, and dispose of their courage, life and 
fortune.” 


THE EVENING OF JLNE THE TWENTIETH. 285 

**Sire,” said De Malden, “my colleague, in replying for him- 
self, has replied for me, and I presume lor this gentleman also.” 

“The third gentleman, to whom I would introduce you, is 
the Vicomte de Charny, brother of him who W’as killed in the 
defence of Versailles at the queen’s door. We are used to the 
devotion of families, and the thing is now so common that we 
often forget even to give thanks for it.” 

“ From what the king says, I presume the Count de Charny 
is aware of the motive of our union. I am ignorant of it, and 
am anxious to learn it, sire.” 

“ Messieurs, you are not ignorant that I am a prisoner of the 
Commandant of the National Guard, of the Maire of Paris, and 
of the National Assembly. Well, sirs, I have relied on you to 
rescue me from this humiliation, and enable me to resume my 
liberty. My life, the lives of the queen and her children, are 
in your hands. All is ready for our flight — contrive only to 
extricate us from this place.” 

“ Sire,” said the three young men, “ give your orders.” 

“ We cannot go out together, messieurs, as you see. Our 
common rendezvous is the corner of the Rue Saint Nicaise, 
where the Count de Charny awaits us wûth a carriage. You, 
vicomte, will take charge of the queen, and answer to the name 
of Melchior. You, M. de Malden, wall take charge of Madame 
Elizabeth and Madame Royale, and will be called Jean. You, 
M. de Valory, will take charge'of Madame de Tourzel and the 
dauphin, and will be called François. Do not forget your new 
names, and await other instructions.” 

The king gave his hand to each of the three young men, and 
left in the room three men ready to die for him. 

M. de Choiseul had on the previous night told the king, 
from M. de Bouillé, that it would be impossible to wait later 
than twenty minutes after twelve for him, and that he had re- 
solved, on the 2 1 St, if he had no news, to set out at 4 a.m., 
taking all the detachments with him to Dun, Stenay, and 
Montmedy. Choiseul was in his own house in the Rue d’ Ar- 
tois, where he awaited the final orders of the king, and as it 
w’as nine o’clock, he had begun to despair, when the only 
servant he had kept, who thought his master just about to set 
out for Metz, came to say that a messenger from the queen 
wished to speak to him. He bade him come up. 

A man entered with a round hat pulled over his eyes, and 
wrapped in an immense pelisse. 


286 


THE COUNTESS DE CH ARN Y, 


“ Is it you, Leonard ? I awaited you anxiously/’ 

“ If I made you wait, duke, it was not my fault, but the 
queen’s, for she told me only ten minutes ago that I had to 
come to your house.” 

“ Did she say nothing more ?” 

“ Yes, duke. She bade me take these diamonds and bring • 
you this letter.” 

“ Now,” said the duke, “ arouse yourself, and tell me what 
the queen said.” 

“ The queen said, in a low voice, ‘ Take these diamonds and 
hide them in your pockets. Take this letter to M. de Choiseul, 
in the Rue d’Artois, but give it to him alone. If not, you will 
find him at the hojse of the Duchesse de Grammont.’ As 
I was leaving, the queen called me back. ‘Put on a broad 
brimmed hat and a large pelisse, that you may not be known, 
and obey M. de Choiseul as if he were myself.’ I went to my 
room, prepared myself, and came.” 

“ Then,” said M. de Choiseul * the queen bade you obey 
me as herself?” 

“ Those were the august words of her majesty.” 

Just then a servant came in and said the carriage was ready, 
and the Duke de Choiseul made the hairdresser get into his 
cabriolet, and set out at post-haste for the barrier of Petite 
Villette. 


CHAPTER XXVII 

THE DEPARTURE. 

At eleven o’clock, at the very time when Mesdames de Tourzel 
and Brennier, after having undressed and put Madame Royale 
and the dauphin to bed, awoke and dressed them again, much 
to the mortification of the dauphin, who insisted on putting on 
boy’s clothes instead of petticoats, the king and queen and 
Madame Elizabeth received Lafayette and his aides-de-camp, 
Gouvion and Romoeuf. This visit was mostannoying, especially 
when they took into consideration the suspicions they enter- 
tained of Madame Rochereul. 

The queen and Madame Elizabeth had, during the evening, 
gone into the Bois de Boulogne, and had returned at eight 
o’clocL Lafayette asked the queen if her promenade had been 


THE DEPARTURE, 287 

pleasant ; but added that she was wrong to return so late, as the 
evening mists might' hurt her. 

“ Mists in June !” said the queen, with a smile ; “but unless 
one be manufactured expressly to conceal our flight, I do not 
know where, at this season, I could find a mist. I presume 
there is a report that we are about to fly.” 

“ The fact is, madame, the report is more current than ever ; 
and I have even been told that it is to take place to-night.” 

“ Ah ! I bet that you received that intelligence from M. 
Gouvion,” said the queen. 

“ Why from me, madame ?" said the young officer, blushing. 

“ Because you have acquaintances in the palace. M. de 
Romœuf has none ; and I am sure he would be answerable for 
me.” 

“ There would be no great merit in it, madame, as the king 
has given his word to the National Assembly not to leave Paris.’ 

It was the queen’s turn to blush. 

The subject of the conversation changed. 

At half past eleven Lafayette and his two aides took leave of 
the king. Gouvion, yet unsatisfied, returned to his room in 
the chateau, where he found his friends on duty, and instead 
of relieving them, urged double diligence. Lafayette went to 
the Hôtel de Ville to make M. Bailly easy, in case he should 
have felt any fear. 

Lafayette having gone, the king and queen rang for their 
servants, had the usual services rendered them, and then dis- 
missed everybody. 

The queen and Madame Elizabeth dressed each other. Their 
dresses were as plain as possible ; their hats were very large, 
and concealed their faces. 

When they were dressed, the king entered. He was clad in 
a grey coat, and one of those little bag- wigs called à la Rous- 
seau. He wore short breeches, grey stockings, and shoes with 
buckles. 

Eight days before, Huet, the valet, had, in precisely such a 
dress, left the door of M. de Villequier, who had emigrated six 
months before, and had gained the square of the Corvuses, and 
the street of St. Nicaise. This precaution had been taken in 
order that people might be used to the dress, and that, if seen 
in the Tuileries, it might occasion no remark. 

The three courtiers were taken from the queen’s boudoir, 
where they had been waiting, and were taken through the 


288 * THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 

saloon into the room of Madame Royale, who was there with 
the dauphin. 

Once in M. Villequier’s room, it was easy to leave the palace. 
No one knew that the king had the keys, and there was no sen- 
tinel there. Besides, after eleven o’clock the sentinels in the 
courtyard were used to see many people pass. 

There all arrangements were made. 

The Vicomte de Charny, who had gone over the road with 
his brother, and knew the difficult and dangerous places, was to 
ride ahead and prepare the postilions, that there might be as 
little delay as possible. 

M. de Malden and M. de Valory were on the seat, and were 
ordered to pay the postilion thirty sous ; ordinarily twenty-five 
was the price, but in consideration of the heaviness of the 
carriage five were added. 

The Count de Charny would be in the coach ready to pro- 
vide against all accidents. He would be well armed, and each 
of the couriers would find a pair of pistols in the carriage. 

By paying well, it was hoped to reach Chalons in thirteen 
hours. 

All this had been decided on between Charny and De 
Choiseul. 

De Malden and De Valory would pay. Charny from the in- 
side would talk, if there were anythi?ig to be said. 

All promised obedience. I'he lights were blown out, and 
they went to the room of M. Villequier. 

It struck twelve as they passed the room ot Madame Royale. 
The Count de Charny must have been at his post an hour. 

The king put the key in the door. 

Steps and whisperings were heard in the corridor. Some- 
thing strange was going on. Madame de Tourzel, who lived in 
the château, ànd who passed to and fro so frequently that her 
presence would cause no surprise, offered to see what was the 
matter. 

They waited motionless. Madame de Tourzel returned and 
reported that she had seen M. de Gouvion and several 
uniforms. It was impossible to leave this room unless it had 
some other outlet. 

They had no light. A lamp was in the room of Madame 
Royale, and Madame de Tourzel lighted the candle, which 
had been blown out. For a long time the search was thought 
useless, but at last a little stairway was found leading to a small 


THE DEPARTURE. 


2H9 


room on the ground floor. I'he door v/as locked. The king 
tried all his keys, but in vain. Charny tried to open it with his 
hunting knife ; but the bolt w^ould not move. They had found 
an outlet, but were as closely confined as ever. I'he king took 
the lamp from Madame de TourzeFs hands, and leaving all the 
rest in darkness, went back to his bed-chamber, and thence to 
the forge. He took a bundle of picklocks and came dowm 
When he had reached the group he had already made his 
choice. The picklock the king had selected grated, and slipped 
twice from the wards. The third time, however, the bolt 
turned, and all breathed freely. 

Now the order of departure was to be regulated. Madame 
Elizabeth went first, with Madame Royale, d'wenty paces 
after followed Madame de Tourzel with the dauphin. Between 
them was M. de Malden, prepared, if necessary, to aid them. 
I’rembling and timidly, these few grains detached from the 
roya’ chaplet, looking behind them for those they loved, de- 
scended and went into the circle of light formed by the lamp 
at the palace door. They passed the sentinel, who did not 
even seem to notice them. “ Good !” said Madame Elizabeth, 
“we have already passed one difficulty.” When at the wicket 
on the Carousel, they saw the sentinel crossing their path. 
When he saw them approach, he paused. “Aunt,” said 

Madame Royale, “we are lost. That man sees us.” “It 

matters not; we will certainly be lost if we hesitate.” They 
continued to advance. When about four paces from them, the 
sentinel turned his back, and they passed on. Did this man 
know them ? Did he know what fugitives he suffered to escape ? 
The princesses thought so, and mentally gave a thousand thanks 
to their unknown preserver. 

On the other side of the wicket they saw the uneasy face of 
the Count de Charny. He was wrapped in a full blue cloak, 
and wore a hat of oiled cloth. 

“ Ah !” said he, “ here you are at last ! And the king and 
queen ?” 

“Are behind us.” 

“ Come,” said Charny. He took them rapidly to a carriage 
ivhich was waiting them in Rue Nicaise. 

A hack drove up by the side of the reinire^ as il to w’atch it. 

“ Well, comrade,” said the hackman, as he saw Charny come 
up, “ it seems you have a fare.” 

“Yes,” said Charny. 

IQ 


200 


THE COUNTESS DE CIIARNY, 


He then said, in a low tone, to M. de Malden, “ Take this 
carriage, and go at once to Porte St. Martin. You will recog- 
nise the vehicle that waits you without trouble.” M. de Malden 
understood, and got into the hack. 

The driver thought his customer was some courier going to 
meet his master at the opera, and set out at once, making no 
remark, except about the price. He said, “You know, sir, it is 
after midnight.” 

“Yes, be easy.” 

As, at that epoch, servants were sometimes more generous 
than their masters, the driver set out at a full trot, and without 
^ny observation but that about the price. 

Scarcely had he turned the corner of the Rue de Rohan, 
than by the same wicket which had given a passage to 
Madame Royale, to Madame Elizabeth, the dauphin, and 
Madame de Tourzel, there advanced at a slow pace, like a clerk 
who had just left his office after a long and laborious day’s work, 
a man in a great coat, with the corner of his hat over his eyes, 
and his hands in his pockets. It was the king, followed by M. 
de Valory. 

Charny advanced a few paces towards him. He had recog- 
nised the king, not by himself, but by his being accompanied 
by M. de Valory. He sighed with grief and almost with 
shame. “ Come, sire,” murmured he. 

Then, in a low tone, he said to M. de Valory, “ Where is the 
queen ?” 

“ The queen follows with the vicomte.” 

“ Come : take the shortest road and await us at Porte St. 
Martin. I will take the longest ; the rendezvous is the carriage.” 

We will not attempt to describe the anxiety of the fugitives. 
Charny, on whom the responsibility rested, was aliliost mad. 

The terror increased as they passed the carriage of Genera. 
Lafayette all lighted up. It was entering the Carousel 

At the door of the court, the Vicomte de Charny gave his 
arm to the queen, and wished to turn to the left. The queen 
made him stop. 

“Whither go you?” said she. “To the corner of Rue 

Nicaise, where my brother awaits us.” 

Is the Nicaise on the river ?” asked the queen. 

“No, madame.” 

“Then your brother awaits you at the wicket towards the 
water.” L;idor would liave insisted, but the queen appeared so 


THE DEP.iRTrRE. 


291 


sure of what she said that doubts entered his mind. “ My God, 
madame,” said he, “every mistake is fatal.” 

“ By the river-side, I am sure I heard by tlie river-side.” 

“ Let us go thither, then, madame, but if we find no carriage, 
we will go at once to Rue Nicaise.V 

The queen and Isidor crossed the openings one after the 
other, and also the three lines of sentinels. None thought ot 
stopping them. What reason was there to believe that this 
young woman, dressed like a servant of a good house, and 
giving her arm to a young man in the livery of the Prince de 
Condé, was the Queen of France ? '1 hey came to the river ; 

the quay was deserted. 

“ it is then, on the other side,” said the queen. Isidor wished 
to retrace his steps. She seemed mad, though, and insisted on 
going to the other wicket. She dragged Isidor to the Port Royal. 
The bridge being crossed, the other side was found deserted as 
the first. 

“ Let us look down the street.” 

She forced him to go down the Rue de Bac. After going 
a hundred yards, she saw her error, and all panting, said : “ My 
strength begins to fail.” 

“ Well, madame, do you still insist ?” 

“ No,” said the queen, “ take me where you will.” 

“ Madame, for heaven’s sake, have courage.” 

“ Ah ! I do not need courage, but strength.” Then, turning 
back, she said : “ It seems to me I shall never regain my breath. 
My God ! my God !” 

Isidor knew that breath was as much needed by the queen at 
this hour, as it is to a wolf pursued by hounds. He paused. 
“ Get your breath, madame. We have time. I will answer foi 
my brother ; he will wait until morning.” 

She resumed walking, and retraced the previous unnecessary 
course she had taken. 

Instead of returning to the Tuileries, Isidor passed through 
the gate into the Carousel ; the immense square was crossed ; 
until midnight it was always covered with pedlers’ stalls and 
with hackney coaches. It was nearly deserted and dark. The 
sound of wheels and of horses’ feet, however, was heard. They 
had reached the gate at the head of the Rue des Echelles. It 
wa^ evident that the horses, whose steps they heard, w’ere about 
to pass in that direction. A light was seen, which doubtless was 
caused by the torches which accompanied the carriage. Isidoi 

19 — 2 


292 


THE COUNTESS DE C//AENV. 


wished to pause ; the queen hurried him on. Isidor rushed to 
the wicket to protect her, just as the torch-bearers appeared on 
the opposite side. He placed her in the darkest place, and 
stood before her. Even that, though, was for a moment inun- 
dated with the light of the torches. Amid, them, in the rich 
uniform of General of the National Guard, was Lafayette. 

At the moment the carriage passed, Isidor felt that a strong 
arm pushed him aside. This was the left arm of the queen. In 
the right hand she had a little bamboo cane with a gold head, 
such as was usually carried at that time by women. She struck 
the carriage wheels sharply, and said, “ So, jailer, I am out of 
your prison.” 

“ What are you doing, madame ? why expose yourself to such 
danger ?” 

“I avenge myself. For that one would incur much danger.’' 

When the last torch had passed, she rushed out radiant as a 
child. 

The queen had not gone ten steps from the wicket when a 
man in a blue cloak, with his face hidden by an old cloth hat, 
seized her arm convulsively and dragged her towards a carriage 
which stood at the corner of Rue Nicaise. This man was the 
Count de Charny. The vehicle was the one in which the royal 
family had been waiting for an hour. 

All expected to see the queen arrive terrified, downcast, and 
overcome ; she came joyous and happy. The dangers she had 
run, the fatigue she had undergone, the time she had lost, all the 
consequences were forgotten in pleasure at the blow with the 
cane she had given the carriage of Lafayette, and which she felt 
as if she had given the general himself. 

Ten paces from the vehicle a servant held a horse. Charny 
pointed the horse to Isidor, who mounted and galloped away. 
He hurried on to Bondy to order post-horses. 

'Fhe queen got into the carriage, in which the whole royal 
family already were. She sat down, took the dauphin on her 
knee, and the king sat by her ; the rest of the family occupied 
the front seat. 

Charny shut the door and got on the box ; and to divert the 
attention of spies, in case there should be any, went up Saint 
Honoré, down the Boulevards to the Madeleine, and thence to 
Porte Saint Martin. The carriage was there in waiting, on a 
road leading to what was called La Voirie. Tbe road was 
deserted. 


THE DE PA E TUEE. 


293 


The count sprang from the box and opened the door. In one 
moment the six persons in the one carriage were put into the 
other. Charny took the useless vehicle and upset it in a ditch, 
and then returned to the carriage. 

De Malden got up behind ; M. de Valorysat with Charny on 
the seat. The carriage had four horses, and a clack of the 
tongue made them break into a trot. The driver moved rapidly. 
A quarter of an hour after the clock of Saint Lawrence struck 
one, they set out for Bondy. The horses were harnessed, and 
waited outside of the stable. 

On the other side of the road was a hired cabriolet all ready. 
In this were the two femmes de chambre of the dauphin and of 
Madame Royale. 

It had been agreed between the king and queen and Charny, 
that at Bondy he would get inside of the carriage, and that 
Madame de Tourzel would return thence to Paris. In this 
change, though, they had forgotten to consult Madame de 
Tourzel. The king proposed the question. Madame de Tourzel 
was devoted to the royal family, but, as far as etiquette was 
concerned, was a perfect pendant to old Madame de Noailles. 

“ Sire,” said she, “ it is my duty to watch over the children 
of France, and not to leave them for a moment without the 
express orders of your majesty. As the order has no precedent, 
I will not leave them.” 

The queen trembled with impatience. Two reasons excited 
her. She wished to have Charny in the carriage ; as a queen 
he assured her safety, as a woman she delighted to have him 
by her. 

“My dear Madame de Tourzel,” said the queen, “we are 
very grateful ; but you suffer and exaggerate devotion. Remain 
at Bondy, and rejoin us wherever we be.” 

“ Madame,” said the old lady, “ let the king order and I will 
obey, even though he place me on the roadside. An order ot 
the king alone, however, can induce me to do this, and thus not 
only fail in my duty, but renounce my right.” 

“ Sire,” said the queen. 

Louis XVI. did not dare to decide in so important a matter. 
He sought some exit, some mode of escape. “ M. de Charny,” 
said he, “ can you not remain on the seat ?” 

“ I can do anything the king wishes,” said M. de Charny 
“ but I should have to remain there ii' my uniform of an officer’ 


294 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


in which I have for four months travelled up and down this 
road. If I did not do that, I would have to wear my coat and 
hat, a dress which by no means suits so elegant an equipage, 

“ Get into the carriage, M. de Charny, get in ; I will hold 
the dauphin, and Madame Elizabeth will take Marie Therese, 
and all will be right. We will only be a little crowded, that 
is all.” 

Charny awaited the king’s decision. “ It is impossible, my 
dear,” said Louis XVI. “Remember that we have ninety 
leagues to go.” 

Madame de Tourzel stood up ready to obey the king’s order, 
if he should order her to get out. The king, however, did not 
venture to give it, so important do even the most trivial pre- 
judices seem to people of courts. 

“Monsieur de Charny, can you not replace your brother, 
and ride in advance to order the horses ?” 

“ I have already told your majesty that I am willing to do 
anytliing, but would suggest to the king that post-horses are 
usually ordered by a courier, and not by a captain of the navy. 
Such a thing might awake the suspicions of the post agents and 
give occasion to much trouble.” 

“ True,” said the king. 

“ My God ! my God !” murmured the queen, impatient to 
the last degree. Then, turning to the count, she said : “Settle 
matters as you please, sir, but you must not leave me.” 

“It is my wish, madame, not to do so, but I see no way to 
avoid it but one.” 

“ What is that ? Speak quickly,” said the queen. 

“ Instead of getting either on the box or in the carriage, in- 
stead of riding in advance, to return to Paris, and then ride 
back in the simple dress of a man riding post. Go on, madame, 
and before you have gone ten leagues, I will be within a 
hundred yards of your carriage.” 

“Then you return to Paris.” 

“Certainly, but till you reach Chalons your majesty has 
nothing to fear, and ere then I will have rejoined you.” 

“ How, though, will you return to Paris ?” 

“On the horse my brother rode ; he is very swift, and has 
had time to blow; in less than half an hour I will be there.” 

“'I'hen?” 

“ Then, madame, I will put on a suitable dress, take a fast 
horse, and hurry on till I overtake you.” 


TUE ROUTE. 


2CS 

“ Is there no other way?” said Marie Antoinette, in despair. 
“ None,” said the king, “ that I see.” 

“Then,” said Charny, “let us lose no time.” 

The importance of the discussion made all forget to give to 
Isidor, De Malden, and De Valory, the loaded pistols which 
were in the coach. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE ROUTE. 

About eight in the morning the royal party reached a long 
ascent ; on the right and left of the road was a wood in which 
the birds sang, and which the rays of a beautiful spring sun 
pierced with golden light. The postilion let his horses walk. 

“Jean !” said the king, “open the door. I wish to walk, and 
I think the queen and children will not be sorry to do like- 
wise.” 

The postilion stopped. The door was opened, and the king, 
queen, and Madame Elizabeth and children got out. Madame 
de Tourzel was too feeble, and remained in the carriage. 

The royal emigrants at once spread themselves along the 
road. The dauphin set to w'ork to pursue butterflies, and 
Madame Royale to gather flowers. 

Madame Elizabeth took the king’s arm ; the queen walked 
alone. 

Presently a horseman appeared, a quarter of a league distant, 
wrapped in the dust raised by the horse’s feet. 

Marie Antoinette dared not say, “This is the Count dc 
Charny but a cry escaped from her, and she said : “ We will 
have news from Paris.” 

All turned round except the dauphin : the careless child had 
just taken a butterfly, and cared no hing for the new’s. 

The king, who was a little near-sighted, used his glasses. “Ah ! 
it is, I think, M. de Charny. Let us go on, he w’dl overtake 
us, and we have no time to lose.” 

The queen did not dare to say that the news brought by M. 
de Charny, at least, was w’orth waiting for, and that it was only 
a delay of a fpw seconds. The postman evidently rode at 
speed. 


THE C >UNTESS DE CHARNY. 


t06 

He himself, as he drew near, evidently looked with great 
attention, and seemed not to understand why the huge carriage 
had placed its inmates on the road-side. He reached them 
just as the carriage reached the top of the rising, and paused. 

“ It is indeed Charny 1” 

He wore a little green frock with a full collar, a broad 
brimmed hat, with a steel buckle ; a white vest, coated 
leather breeches, and military boots which reached the knee. 

He sprang from his horse, and bowed before the king, and 
then turned and saluted the queen. 

All grouped around him, except the two guards, who remained 
discreetly out of hearing. 

“In the first place, sire, at two o’clock your flight was not 
suspected.” 

All breathed freely. 

I'he king said to the guardsmen, “ Draw near, gentlemen, 
and listen to M. de Charny’s news.” 

Miny questions were asked. 

Charny told how he had reached Paris and met a patrol, how 
he had been interrogated by it, and had left it fully convinced 
that the king was in bed and asleep. 

He then told how, once in the interior of the Tuileries, calm 
as usual, he had gone to his room, changed his dress, and 
passed through the royal corridor, to satisfy himself that none 
suspected the escape; not even De Gouvion, who had with- 
drawn the line of sentinels he had established around the king’s 
rjom, and had sent away the officers and majors. 

Charny had then taken his horse, which one of the servants, 
on duty for the night, had held in the court-yard, and thinking 
that at that hour it would be difficult for him to find a post- 
horse, had set out for Bondy. The unfortunate animal was 
almost broken down, but reached Bondy, and that was all the 
count cared for. He there got a f esh horse and rode on. 
Nothing else had occurred on the route. 

They resumed their places, and Charny galloped by the side 
of the door. 

At the next post station the horses were all ready, except one 
for Charny. Isidor had not ordered one, for he did not know 
that his brother was on horseback. They did not wait for the 
horse, but set out, and in five minutes after, Charny was in the 
saddle. 

He had taken a relay at Mpntmirail, and thought that the car* 


THE ROUTE, 


207 

riage was a quarter of an hour in advance of him, when, at the 
turning of the street, his horse came directly on the carriage 
and the two guardsmen, who were seeking to mend a broken 
trace. 

The count leaped from his horse, passed the door, and 
advised the king to conceal himself, and the queen not to be 
uneasy. He then opened a kind of box, forward, in which 
were placed all things likely to be made necessary by an 
accident on the road ; he found there a pair of traces, one of 
which he took. 

The two guardsmen took advantage of the delay to ask for 
their arms, but the king positively objected. It was suggested 
that the carriage might be stopped, to which he said that even 
in that case he would not have blood shed for him. 

The trace was mended — the box shut, the guards and Charny 
were in their places, and they set out again. They had how- 
ever, lost half an hour, and at a time when the loss of a minute 
might be irreparable. At two they were at Chalons. 

The king showed himself for a moment Amid the groups 
formed around the door w^ere twm men w'ho looked fixedly at 
him. One of the men left The other approached the door, 
and said in a low lone : “ Sire ! do not expose yourself thus, or 
you are lost” 

Then, speaking to the postilions, he said : “ Come, lazybones, 
be quick; is it thus you delay travellers who pay you thirty 
sous a station ?” He set to work himself— he wms the post 
agent. The horses at length were harnessed, and the postilions 
mounted. 

In the interim, the man who had disappeared had gone to 
the maire, and told him that the king and all his family were at 
the post-house, and asked authority to arrest them. 

The maire luckily was not much of a republican, and did not, 
besides, wish to assume so much responsibility. Instead of 
ascertaining the fact, he asked for all kinds of explanations, 
denied that it could be so, and reached the hotel just as the 
carriage drove off. 

They had, however, lost twenty minutes. 

There was much alarm in the equipage. The horses kicking 
so unnecessarily recalled to the queen the sudden extinction of 
the four lights. As, however, they left the city, the king, queen, 
and Madame Elizabeth said, “We are saved !” 

A hundred paces further, a man appeared, rushed to the door 


2^3 


THE COUNTESS DE CIIARNY. 


and said : Your measures are badly taken. You will be 
arrested.” 

The queen uttered a cry. The man rushed into a little wood, 
and disappeared. 

Fortunately, they were but four leagues from the bridge of 
Someville, where Choiseul was with his dragoons. It was, how- 
ever, three in the afternoon, and they were four hours behind 
time. 

When M. de Choiseul reached the bridge of Someville, he 
found that his hussars had not yet arrived, but shortly after the 
trumpets and tramp of horses were heard. M. de Goquelot 
appeared. Choiseul had the horses picketed out — had bread 
and wine given to the hussars, and then sat down himself with 
the colonel to dinner. 

The news of M. Goquelot was not flattering. He had 
observed great excitement everywhere. For more than a year 
reports of the king’s flight had been circulated, not only in 
Paris, but in the country, and the detachments of different arms 
stationed at Sainte Menehould had excited suspicion. He had 
even heard the tocsin in a village near the road. 

This was enough to take away even De Choiseul’s appetite. 
After passing an hour at the table, he arose, and leaving the 
command of the detachment to M. Boudet, went to an 
eminence beyond the bridge, which permitted him to see the 
road for half a league. 

He saw neither courier nor carriage. There was, however, 
nothing surprising in that, for De Choiseul could allow for petty 
accidents. He expected the courier in an hour, or an hour and 
a half, and the king in two or two and a half hours. 

Nine passed, and he saw on the road nothing like the things 
he expected. 

At half-past two there was no carriage. It will be remembered 
they had left Chalons only at three. 

While, however, De Choiseul was thus waiting on the road, 
fatality had prepared at the bridge of Someville an event which 
had the greatest influence on the drama we relate. 

Fatality had willed that a few days previous the peasants of 
an estate belonging to Madame Elbœuf had refused to pay 
duties not redeemable. They had been menaced with troops. 
The federation, however, had borne its fruits, and the peasants 
of the villages in the vicinity had vowed to assist those of 
Elbœuf, if the threats were realised 


7I1E ROUTE, 


299 


When they saw the hussars take their position, therefore, the 
peasants thought they came with evil intentions. Couriers were 
sent to the neighbouring villages, and about three the tocsin 
sounded throughout the whole city. 

When he returned to the bridge, which he did immediately, 
Choiseul found his sub-lieutenant, M. Boudet, very uneasy. 
Muttered threats had been heard by the hussars, and the regi- 
ment at that time was one of the most detested of the French 
army. The peasants made mouths at them, and sang under 
their very noses this improvised song : 

•* Les hussards sont des Ceux ; 

Mais nous nous moquons d’eux.”* 

Other persons, too, who were more clear-sighted, began to 
say that the hussars were there not to enforce obedience from 
the peasants, but to await the arrival of the king and queen. 

Four o’clock came without news. De Choiseul resolved, 
however, to remain ; but he ordered the horses to be put to bis 
carriage, and took charge of the diamonds, sending Leonard to 
Varennes, and bidding him report at St. Menehould to M. Dan- 
doins, at Clermont to M. Damas, and at Varennes to M. de 
Bouille', the state of affairs. 

Then, to soothe the excitemei t he stated that he and the 
hussars were there not to repress the peasantry of Elboeuf, but 
to escort a large treasure which the Minister of War had sent to 
the army. 

I’he word treasure, though it soothed excitement on one 
score, raised on the other much difficulty. The king and queen 
were also a treasure, and M. de Choiseul evidently waited for 
them. 

After a quarter of an hour, M. de Choiseul and his troops 
were so pressed up that he could not keep his position, and if 
the royal party came, he, with his forty hussars, would be unabU 
to protect them. 

His orders were to keep the king’s journey free from obstacle. 
Instead of protecting, however, his presence was an obstacle. 

The best thing he could do would be to retire, as he would 
thus leave the road free ; but he needed a pretext. 

The post agent stood in the midst of a crowd of five or six 

The hussars are beggars, but we laugh at them. 


300 


7 HE COUNTESS DE Cil ARN Y, 


hundred persons whom a trifle would make enemies of. He, 
like the others, stood looking with folded arms at M. de 
Çhoiseul. 

“ Monsieur,” said the duke, “ are you aware of any convoy 
of money having gone lately to the army at Metz ?” 

‘‘Yes ; this morning a hundred thousand crowns were sent, 
escorted by two gendarmes.” 

“ Indeed !” said De Choiseul, amazed at his good fortune in 
receiving the news. 

“ Parbleu ! it is true,” said a gendarme : “ Robin and I 
escorted it.” 

“ Then,” said the duke, turning to M. Goquelot, “ the minister 
must have preferred another mode of escort, and our presence 
here is useless. I think we had best start — hussars, bridle up.” 

The hussars, who were uneasy enough, asked nothing better, 
and in a moment were bridled and mounted. M. de Choiseul 
placed himself in front, looked towards Chalons and with a sigh 
said : “ Hussars by fours, break !” 

He left Someville with his trumpets sounding, just as the 
clock struck four. 

Two hundred paces from the village De Choiseul took the 
cross-road to avoid St. Menehould, which he heard was in a 
great slate of excitement. 

Just then Isidor de Charny rode into the village, on a horse 
which had borne him four leagues in two hours. He inquired 
at the post-house, and learned that a detachment of dragoons 
had departed only a few minutes before. He ordered the horses, 
and hoping to overtake De Choiseul, galloped rapidly after 
him. 

The duke had left the main road and taken the cross-road 
just as Isidor entered the village ; and the consequence was, 
the vicomte did not overtake him. 

The carriage of the king came ten minutes after. 

As De Choiseul had seen, the crowd \vas nearly dissipated. 

The Count de Charny, aware that the first detachment of 
troops si lid be at the bridge of Someville, had been perfectly 
confident, and had not urged on the postilions, who seemed to 
have received the order to make the journey at a slow trot. 

When he reached the bridge, and did not see the cavalry of 
De Choiseul, the king put his head anxiously out of the carriage. 

“For heaven’s sake, sire, do not show yourself 1 i will 
inqiiire.” 


THE ROUTE, 


301 


He went into the post-house. In five minutes he returned» 
having learned all. The king saw that De Choiseul had retired 
to leave him a free passage. It was important to reach St. 
Menehould, on which place De Choiseul had, doubtless, fallen 
back, and where he would find both the hussars and dragoons. 

At the moment of departure Charny approachea the carriage. 
“ What does the queen order?” said he; “ must I go in advance, 
or follow ?” 

“ Do not leave us.” 

Charny bowed, and rode by the side of the carriage. 

Isidor rode on, being unable to account for the solitude of the 
road, which was so straight that sometimes it could be seen for 
the distance of a league, or more, in advance. 

He urged on his horse, and gained on the carriage more 
rapidly than he had done, fearing that the people of St. Mene- 
hould should suspect the presence of the hussars. He was not 
wrong. The first thing he saw was a great number of National 
Guards in the streets. They were the first he had met since he 
left Paris. The whole city seemed in motion, and on the oppo- 
site side of the town he heard the drums beat. 

The vicom.te rode rapidly through the streets, without appear- 
ing in the least uneasy about what was going on. He crossed 
the great square, and stopped at the post-house. 

As he crossed the square, he noticed about a dozen dragoons, 
in police caps, seated on a fence. At a few paces from them, 
he saw', at a window of the ground floor, the Marquis Dandoins, 
also in fatigue, and wdth a whip in his hand. 

Isidor did not pausCj and appeared to observe nothing. He 
presumed that M. Dandoins, aware of the king’s couriers, would 
know him and need no other hint. 

A young man of tw'enty, with his hair cut à la Titus — as the 
patriots of that time w^ore it— wfith w'hiskers meeting under his 
chin, was at the door of the post-house. 

Isidor looked for some one to speak to. 

“ What do you wish, sir ?” said the man with the whiskers. 

“To speak to the agent of the post” 

“He is now absent, sir, but I, Jean Baptiste Drouet, am his 
son. If I can replace him, sj eak.” 

The young man laid an emphasis on his name, as if he were 
aware what a terrible celebrity it w’ould obtain in history. 

I want six post-horses for two carriages which follow me— 
also a saddle horse. 


302 THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 

Drouet nodded an assent, went into the yard. “ Postilions,” 
said he, “ six post-horses and a saddle horse.” 

Just then the Marquis Dandoins came in. “ Monsieur,” said 
he, you precede the king’s coach ?” 

“Yes, sir, and I am amazed to see you and your men in 
fatigue dress.” 

“ We had not been warned, sir ; and besides, very dangerous 
demonstrations have taken place around us. An attempt has 
been made to debauch my men. What must be done ?” 

“ The king will soon pass. Watch his equipage, ana be 
guided by circumstances, and set out half an hour after the 
royal family has gone, acting as a rear guard.” 

Then, interrupting himself, Isidor said : “ Silence ! we are 
watched, and perhaps even heard. Go to your squadron, and 
dg) your besi to keep your men faithful.” 

Drouet, in fact, stood at the door where this conversation 
took place. Dandoins left. Just then the sound of whips was 
heard at the door. The king’s carriage had come. Curiosity 
attracted all the population around it. 

Dandoins wished at once to tell the king why he and his 
troops were in fatigue uniform at the moment of his arrival, and 
advanced, cap in hand, and apologised with all possible respect. 

The king showed himself twice or thrice. 

Isidor, with his foot in the stirrup, stood by Drouet, who looked 
Tiuth profound attention into the carriage. During the previous 
year he had attended the federation, had seen the king, and 
recognized him. 

On that day he had received a considerable sum in assignats: 
he had examined them one after the other (they all had the 
king’s likeness) to see if they were good, and he remembered 
the royal features. Something within him seemed to say, “ That 
man is the king.” 

He took an assignat from his pocket, looked at it, and said : 
“It is certainly he.” 

Isidor went to the other side of the carriage, and his brother 
covered the door at which the queen was sitting. 

“ The king is known,” said he ; “ hurry the departure of the 
carriage, and look at that tall dark man. He has recognized 
the king, and is named Jean Baptiste Drouet.” 

“ Very well,” said Olivier, “ I will take care. Go.” 

Isidor set out at a gallop to order horses at Clermont. 

As soon as they were outside the city, e.xcited by the promises 


THE ROUTE, 


•03 


of MM. de Malden, and de Valory, of a crown a piece, the 
postilions set out at a full trot. 

The count had not lost sight of Drouet. 

Drouet had not moved, but had spoken in a low voice to n 
stable-boy. 

Charny drew near, and said, “ Monsieur, is there no hotac 
for me ?” 

“ One was ordered. But there are none.” 

“ How — no horses ? But that one which I see in the yaiJ, 
monsieur ?” 

‘‘ That is mine.” 

“ Can you not let me have it, sir ?” 

“ It is impossible. I have a journey of importance to make, 
which cannot be postponed.” 

To insist would arouse suspicions ; to attempt to take a horse 
by force would be very dangerous. 

Charny, however, thought of a way to arrange matters. 

M. Dandoins had looked after the carriage until it turned the 
corner. He looked back. 

“ Eh,” said Olivier, “ I am the Count de Charny — I can get 
no horse — dismount a dragoon, and give me his charger. I must 
follow the king and queen ; I only know De Choiseul’s relay, and 
if I am not with them the king must stop at Varennes.” 

“ Count,” said the marquis, “ 1 will not give you a dragoon’s 
horse, but one of my own.” 

“ I will take it. The fate of the whole royal family depends 
on the merest accident. The better the horse, the better the 
chance.” 

They crossed the street and went to the marquis’ quarters. 
Before he left, Charny bade a serjeant watch Drouet. The 
marquis unfortunately lived five hundred yards from the post- 
house. Before the horses could be saddled at least a quarter of 
an hour would be lost. We say horses, for M. Dandoins had 
received an order to saddle up, and serve as a rear guard. 

All at once Charny fancied that he heard voices shout, “ The 
queen ! the queen !” 

He hurried out of the house, ordering Dandoins to send the 
horses to the post-house. The whole town was in a ferment ; it 
seemed that it only waited for the king to leave to burst forth. 

“ The carriage which has just left is the king’s !” exclaimed 
Drouet, hurrying off. “ The king, queen, and princess are in 
it” He mounted his horse. Many of his friends sought to 


304 THE COUXTEi^S DE CIIARNY, 

retain him. Where goes he ? what is he about ? what is his 
plan ? 

“ The colonel of the detachment of dragoons being there,” he 
replied in a low tone, “ it was impossible to detain him without 
a collision, in which we might have been second best. What I 
did not do here, I will do at Clermont Retain the dragoons, 
that is all.” 

He galloped after the king. 

Then the report was spread that the king and queen were in 
the carriage which had just passed, and the noise arose which 
Charny hegrd. 

The maire and municipality collected, and the dragoons were 
ordered to retire to their barracks until eight o’clock. 

Charny had heard all. Drouet had gone, and he quivered 
with impatience. 

Just then Dandoins came up. 

“ The horses ? the horses ? where are they ?” 

“They will be here directly.” 

“Are there pistols in the holsters?” “Yes.” 

“ Loaded ?” “ I loaded them myself.” 

“ Good ; now all depends on your horse’s speed ! I must 
overtake a man who is a quarter of an hour in advance, and whom 
I must kill.” 

“ How ! kill him ?” “ Yes ! or all is lost. 

“ Mordieu ! to horse then.” 

“ Do not take any trouble about me, but mind your dragoons. 
Look, the maire harangues them ; you have no time to lose.” 

Just then the servant came with the two horses, Charny sprang 
on the first, took the bridle from the servant, and rode away after 
Drouet, without hearing Dandoins’ adieu. 

Those last words, however, were most important. They were, 
“ You have taken my horse, count, and the pistols in the holsters 
are not loaded.” 

In the meantime, the carriage, preceded by Isidor, moved 
apidly from St. Menehould to Clermont. 

The day was declining ; it had struck eight, and the carriage 
was on the high road through the forest of Argonne. 

The queen now saw that Charny was not by her side, but 
there was no way either to slacken or to quicken the pace. 

To explain events and to illustrate every point of this terrible 
journey, we must flit from one character to another. During 
this time, while Isidor preceded the carriage a quarter of an 


THE ROUTE, 


30 $ 

hour as a courier on the route to Sainte Menehould, and entered 
the forest of Argonne, and Drouet followed the coach with 
Charny at his heels, Dandoins ordered boot and saddle to be 
sounded. 

Among the crowd were three hundred armed National Guards. 
To risk a battle — and all promised that it would be severe — would 
be to destroy the king. It would be better to remain, and thus 
restrain the people. Dandoins had a parley with them, and 
asked the leaders what they wanted, what they wished, and what 
was the meaning of these hostile demonstrations. In the mean- 
time, the king would reach Clermont, and find Damas with a 
hundred and forty dragoons. 

Had he one hundred and forty dragoons he would attempt 
something, but he had but thirty. What avail would they be 
against three or four hundred men ? 

He did parley. At half past nine the carriage, preceded by 
Isidor only a few hundred paces, reached Clermont. 

It had been but an hour and a quarter going four leagues. 

Outside of the city, Damas, who had been warned by Leonard 
awaited them. He recognised Isidor’s livery, and said : “ Ex- 
cuse me ; do you precede the king ?” 

“Are you, sir. Count Charles de Damas?” “Yes.” 

“ I do. Assemble your dragoons and prepare to escort the 
royal carriage.” 

“ Monsieur,” said the Count de Damas, “ there are rumours 
of insurrection which terrify me, and I own frankly that I cannot 
answer for the fidelity of my men if they recognise the king. All 
that 1 can promise is, when the carriage has passed, to follow it 
and close the road.” 

“ Do your best, sir. Here is the king.” 

In the distance the royal carriage might be recognised by the 
sparks the horse’s feet knocked from the stones of the road. 

It was his duty to ride ahead and order the relays. Five 
minutes after, he was at the post-house. Almost at the same 
time came Damas and five or six dragoons. I'hen came the 
king. 

The carriage followed Isidor so quickly that he had scarcely 
time to mount. The carriage, without being rich, was so 
remarkable that many persons began to collect. 

Damas stood by the door of the house, pretending not to 
know the illustrious party. 


20 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


3c6 

Neither the king nor queen, however, could resist the desire 
to obtain information. 

The king called Damas ; the queen Isidor. 

“ Is it you, M. Damas ? ’ said the king. “ Yes, sire.* 

“ Why are not your dragoons under arms ?” 

“Sire, your majesty is five hours behind the time. My 
squadron was mounted at four o’clock. I kept it waiting as 
long as possible, but the city began to get excited, and my men 
began to make some very troublesome conjectures. If the 
fermentation broke out before your majesty’s a rival, the tocsin 
would have been sounded and the road clcs d. I then kept 
only a dozen men mounted, and made the others go to their 
quarters. I kept the trumpeters, though, at my own quarters, 
so that I could sound boot-and-saddle as soon as possible, if 
necessary. Your majesty sees I was right, for the road is now 
free.” 

“ Very well, sir. You have acted prudently. When I am 
gone, sound the boot-and-.saddle and overtake me.” 

“ Sire,” said the queen, “ will you hear what the vicomte 
says ?” 

“ What does he say ?” asked the king impatiently. 

“ That you were recognised by the son of the post-agent at 
Sainte Menehould ; that h ? saw this young man, with an assignat 
in his hand, examine your countenance and your likeness; that 
he told his brother, who is behind, of the matter ; that some* 
thing serious has certainly taken place, or Count de Cliarny 
would be here.” 

“ Then, if we have been recognised, there is the more reason 
for haste. M. Isidor, hurry up the postilions.” 

Isidor’s horse was ready. The young man leaped into the 
saddle and cried out : “ Quick, to Varennes !” 

M. Damas stepped back, and bowed respectfully to the king: 
the postilions started. 

The horses had been changed in the twinkling of an eye, and 
they went like lightning. 

As they left the city they passed a sergeant of hussars. 

M. Damas had at first felt disposed to follow the carriage with 
the few men who were ready ; the king, however, had given him 
other orders, to which he thought it his duty to conform. Some 
excitement also was observable in the city; the citizens going 
from house to house, the windows opening, and heads and lights 
being visible everywhere. Damas sought to prevent but one 


THE ROUTE. 


307 


thing — the sounding of the tocsin. Besides, he expected Dan- 
doins every moment with his thirty men, which would reinforce 
him. All, however, appeared to grow calm ; about a quarter of 
an hour after, he went to the square, where he found his chief 
of squadron, M. de Norville, and asked him to get the men 
under arms. Just then they came to tell him that a non- 
commissioned officer sent by Dandoins waited with a message. 

The message was that he must not expect M. Dandoins, who 
with his troops was retained by the municipality of St, Mene- 
hould, and also, which Damas knew already, that Drouet had 
set out to overtake the carriages, which he probably had not 
been able to overtake, as he had not been seen. 

This was the state of things when a non-commissioned officer 
of Lauzun’s regiment was announced. 

The message had beén sent by the commander, M. de Rohrig, 
who with young De Bouillé and Raigecourt commanded at 
Varennes. Uneasy at the lapse of hours without news, these 
gentlemen had sent to Damas for information. 

‘'What was the condition of things at Varennes?” asked 
Damas. 

“ Perfectly quiet.” 

“ Where are the hussars ?” 

“ In quarters, with their horses saddled.” 

“ Did you meet any carriages on the road ?” 

“Yes ; one with four and another with two horses.” 

“ I'hose were the carriages you looked for ; all is right,” said 
Damas. 

He went to his quarters and ordered boot-and-saddle. He 
prepared to follow the king, and defend him if necessary. Five 
minutes after, the trumpets sounded. All was well, except the 
incident which detained the troops of Dandoins. With his 
hundred and forty dragoons, however, he could do without his 
subordinate. 

The royal equipage had turned to the left towards Varennes. 
It had been determined to change horses on the side towards 
Dun, and to reach it, it was necessary to leave the road oyer 
the hills, and take tne one which led to the bridge. That being 
passed, to go beneath the tower to the place where De Choi- 
seul’s relays were, which were to be guarded by De Bouillé and 
De Raigecourt. 

Wnen at this difficult point, they remembered that Charnv 
was to guide the party through the streets to the post-house. 

20 — z 


THE COUNTESS DE CH ARN Y, 


30S 

The count had been there some days and he had made him* 
self familiar with every stone. Unfortunately, he was not 
there. 

The anxiety of the queen was doubled. Charny would 
have joined the carriage, had not some terrible accident be- 
fallen him. 

As he approached Varennes, the king himself became uneasy 
Relying on Charny, he had not even brought a map of the 
city. The night, too, was intensely dark, and lighted by the stars 
alone. It was one of those nights in which it was easy to become 
lost, even in known localities, and for a better reason in strange 
places. 

The order Isidor had received from Charny was to halt in front 
of the city. There his brother would relay, and as we have said, 
resume charge. 

As the queen, and perhaps Isidor as well, was uneasy about 
his brother, they had no hope but that either De Bouille or De 
Raigecourt would meet the king outside of Varennes. They 
had been two or three days in the city, knew it, and would be 
guides. When, therefore, they reached the foot of the hill, 
and saw but two or three lights, Isidor halted, and looked 
around him, not knowing what to do. He saw nothing. He 
then called in a low, and then in a loud voice, for MM. de 
Rouillé and de Raigecourt, He heard the sound of the carriage 
wheels as they approached, like distant thunder in sound. An 
idea occurred to him : perhaps they were on the edge of the 
forest. He entered and explored. He saw nobody. He 
had then one thing or the other to do j he must either go on 
or wait. 

In five minutes the carriage had come. All asked at once, 
“ You have not seen the count ?” 

“ Sire,” said Isidor, “ I have not ; as ne is not here, he 
must, while in pursuit of Drouet, have met with some acci- 
dent.” 

The queen sighed. 

“ What must be done ?” asked the king. 

Speaking to the two guardsmen, he said, “ Gentlemen, do 
you know the city ?” 

No one did, and the answer wa-s negative. 

“ Sire,” said Isidor, “ all is silent and quiet ; if it please your 
majesty to wait here ten minutes, I will enter the city, and find 
either MM. de Rouillé and de Raigecourt or the relays of M. 


/EAN BAPTISTE DROUET, 


309 

(îè Choiseul. Does your majesty remember the name of the 
inn where the horses were ?” 

Alas, no !” said the king:. “I did, but have forgotten. It 
matters not — go, and we will in the meantime search out some 
information.” 

Isidor hurried towards the city, and soon disappeared among 
the houses. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

JEAN BAPTISTE DROUET. 

The words of the king: “We get some information here," 
were explained by the appearance of two or three houses on 
the right-hand side of the road. The nearest of these houses 
was opened at the sound of the approaching carriages, as 
they perceived by the light that shone through the door- 
way. 

The queen descended, took the arm of M. de Malden, and 
went towards the house. But at their approach the door was 
closed, yet not so quickly but that M. de Malden had time to 
dart forward before it was quite shut. Under the pressure of 
M. de Malden, although there was some resistance, the door 
opened. 

Behind the door, and making an effort to close it, was a man 
about fifty, with his legs bare, and dressed in a robe-"’e- 
chambre and slippers. He cast a rapid look at the queen, whose 
countenance was visible by the light he held in his hand, 
and started. “ What do you want, sir ?” he asked of M. de 
Malden. 

“ Monsieur,” was the reply, “ we do not know Varennes, 
and we beg you to be so good as to point out the way to 
Stenay.” 

“ And if I do so,” said the unknown, “ and if they ascertain 
that 1 have given you the information, then for giving it to you 
I should be lost.” 

“ Ah, monsieur, should you run some risk in rendering us 
this service, you are too courteous not to oblige a lady who 
finds herself in a dangerous position.” 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


510 

** Monsieur !” replied the man, “ the person who is behind 
you is the queen !” 

“ Monsieur !” 

“ I have recognised her !” 

The queen, who had heard or guessed what had just passed, 
touched M. de Malden behind. “ Before going further,” said 
she, ‘‘ tell the king that I am recognised.” 

M. de Malden, in one second, had accomplished this com- 
mission. 

“ Well !” said the king, “ beg this man to come and speak 
with me.” 

M. de Malden returned; and thinking it useless to dis- 
simulate, he said: “The king wishes to speak to you, mon- 
sieur.” 

The man sighed, threw off his slippers, and with naked feet, 
in order to make less noise, advanced towards the door. 

“ Your name, monsieur?” asked the king at once. 

“ M. de Préfontaine, sire,” he replied hesitatingly. 

“ What are you ?” 

“ A major of cavalry, and knight of the royal order of Saint 
Louis.” 

“ In your double quality as major and knight of the older of 
Saint Louis, you have twice taken the oath of fidelity to me ; it 
is consequently your duty to assist me in the embarrassment I 
find myself in.” 

“ Certainly,” replied the major ; “ but I beg your majesty to 
make haste — I may be seen.” 

“ And, monsieur, if you are seen,” said M. de Malden, “ so 
much the better. You vill never have so good an opportunity 
again to do your duty.” 

I'he major, with whom this seemed no argument, uttered a 
kind of groan. 

The queen shrugged her shoulders in pity, and stamped her 
foot with impatience. 

The king made a sign to her, and then, addressing the major: 
“ Monsieur,” he continued, “ have you, by chance, heard speak 
of some horses that were vraiting for a carriage, and have you 
seen any hussars stationed in the town since yesterday ?” 

“ Yes, sire, horses and hussars are on the other side of the 
town : the horses at the Hôtel du Grand Monarque, the hussars 
probably in tfie barracks.” 


/Ejy BJP r/s TE DROUET, 


SU 

** Thanks, sir. Now go in; no one has seen you, and nothing 
will h.ippen to you.” 

“ Sire ! ” 

The king, without listening any further, reached his hand to 
the queen to assist her into the carriage, and addressing the 
guards, who waited for his orders : “ Gentlemen,” said he, 
“ forward to the Grand Monarque !” 

The two officers resumed their places, and cried to the 
postilions : “To the Grand Monarque !” 

But at the same instant, a kind of shadow on horseback darted 
from the wood, and riding across the road, “ Postilions,” said 
he, “ not a step further !” 

“ Why so ?” asked the postilions, astonished. 

“ Because you are conducting the king, who is flying from 
France, and in the name of the nation I order you not to stir.” 

The postilions, who had already made a movement forward, 
stopped, muttering, “ The king !” 

Louis XVI. saw the danger was great “ Who are you, sir,” 
cried he, “ who give your orders here ?” 

“ A simple citizen ; but I represent the law, and I speak in 
the name of the nation. Postilions, stir not I order it a 
second time. You know me well — I am Jean Baptiste Drouet, 
son of the postmaster of St Menehould.” 

“ Oh ! the miserable fellow !” cried the two guards, jumping 
down from their seats, with their couteaus de chasse in their 
hands, “ it is he !” But before they had reached the ground, 
Drouet had darted into the streets of the lower town. 

“ Ah ! Charny, Charny !” murmured the queen, “ what has 
happened to you ?” She sank into the bottom of the carriage, 
indiferent to whatever might happen. 

What had happened to Charny, and how had he let Drouet 
pass ? — Fatality ! 

The horse of M. Dandoins was swift, but Drouet had already 
twenty minutes’ start of the count. He failed in recovering 
these twenty minutes. 

Ciiarny drove the spurs into his horse ; the horse bounded 
and went off at a gallop. Drouet on his side, without knowing 
whether he waj followed or not, went as hard as he could. He, 
however, had only a post-horse, Charny a thorough-bred. At 
the end of a league Charny had shortened the distance by a 
third. Then Drouet perceived he was pursued, and redoubled 


3Î2 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


his efforts to escape. He had left so rapidly that he was 
without arms. 

The young patriot did not fear death, but he feared to be 
stopped. He feared the king would escape ; he feared that this 
opportunity to render his name illustrious for ever would escape 
him. 

He had still two leagues to go before reaching Clermont, and 
it was evident that he would be overtaken at the end of the third 
league from St. Menehould. And yet to stimulate his ardour 
he heard the carriage of the king before him. He redoubled his 
spurring and whipping. 

He was only three-quarters of a league from Clermont, but 
Charny was not more than two hundred paces behind him. 
Without doubt, Drouet knew there was no post-house at Va- 
rennes ; without doubt the king was going on to Verdun. 

Drouet began to despair. Before he could reach the king 
he would be overtaken himself. At half a league from Cler- 
mont he heard the gallop of Charny’s horse nearly as well as 
that of his own. 

All at once, as Charny was not more than fifty paces behind 
him, some returning postilions crossed before Drouet. Drouet 
knew that they were those who had conducted the king’s 
carriage. 

“ Ah !” said he, “ it is you. On to Verdun, aye ?** 

“ What ? On to Verdun ?” asked the postilion. 

“ I said,” repeated Drouet, “ that the carriages you had just 
left have gone on to Verdun.” And he passed, pressing his 
horse for a last effort. 

“ No !” cried the postilions, “ on to Varennes.” 

Drouet gave a cry of joy. He is safe! and the king is lost ! 
He darted into the forest of Argonne, all the paths of which he 
knew. In crossing the wood he would gain on the king. Be- 
sides, the darkness of the wood would protect him. Charny, 
who knew the country almost as well as Drouet, understood 
that Drouet would escape, and uttered a cry of anger. Nearly 
at the same time as Drouet, he pushed his horse into the open 
country that separated the road from the forest, calling out : 
“ Stop ! stop !” 

But Drouet took care not to answer. He leant over on the 
neck of his horse, exciting him with his spurs, whip and voice. 
If he reached the wood he was safe. 


JEAN BAPTISTE DROUET, 313 

He reached the wood, but when he reached it he was only ten 
paces from Charny. 

Charny seized one of his pistols, and pointing it at Drouet, 
“ Stop !” said he, “ or thou diest !” 

Drouet stooped still more over the neck of his horse, and 
pressed on. Charny drew the trigger, but it missed fire. 

Furious, Charny launched the pistol at Drouet, seized the 
second, dashed into the wood in pursuit of the fugitive, aimed 
at him betwixt the trees, but a second time the pistol missed 
fire. 

Then it was that he remembered as he galloped away from 
M. Dandoins that he had heard him cry out something which 
he had not understood. 

“ Ah !” said he, “ I have mistaken the horse, and, without 
doubt, he cried to me that the pistols were not charged. N ’im- 
porte ! I’ll overtake this fellow, and if necessary will kill him 
with my hands.” And he continued the pursuit. But he had 
scarcely gone a hundred yards before his horse fell into a ditch. 
Charny rolled over his head, got up, and jumped into the saddle 
again, but Drouet had disappeared. 

And so Drouet escaped from Charny. So it happened that 
he crossed the high-road, like a threatening phantom, and com- 
manded the postilions who were driving the king not to go a 
step further. 

The postilions had stopped, for Drouet had ordered them in 
the name of the nation, which had already commenced to be 
more powerful than the king. 

Drouet had scarcely got into the streets of the lower town 
before the galloping of an approaching horse was heard. 

By the same street that Drouet had taken, Isidor appeared. 
His information was the same as that given by M. de Préfontaine. 

The horses of M. de Choiseul and M. de Bouillé and de 
Raigecourt were at the other end of the town, at the Grand 
Monarque. The third officer, M. de Rohrig, was at the garrison 
with the hussars. A waiter at a café, who was shutting up his 
establishment, had given him the information. But instead of 
finding the travellers, as he expected, full of joy, he found them 
plunged in the deepest grief. 

M. de Préfontaine wept ; the two guards threatened some- 
thing invisible and unknown. Isidor stopped in the midst of his 
recital. 

“ What has happened, gentlemen ?” asked he. 


314 


THE COUNTESS DE C II ARN Y. 


Did you not meet in the street a man who passed you at full 
gallop?» 

“ Yes, sire,” said Isidor. 

“ Well, that man was Drouet,” said the king. 

“ Drouet !” said Isidor, with profound grief ; ** then my 
brother is dead !” 

The queen shrieked, and buried her head in her hands. 

There was a moment of inexpressible depression among 
these unfortunates, threatened with a danger unknown but 
terrible, and stopped upon the highway. Isidor recovered 
himself first. 

Sire,” said he, “ dead or living, do not think any longer of 
my brother. Think of your majesty. There is not a moment 
to lose. The postilions know the hotel of the Grand Monarque. 
At a gallop, to th: hotel of the Grand Monarque 1” 

But the postilions did not stir. 

“Don’t you hear?” asked Isidor. “Yes.’* 

“ Well then, why do you not start?” 

“ Because M. Drouet has forbidden us.” 

“ What 1 M. Drouet has forbidden you ? And when the king 
commands and M. Drouet forbids, you obey M. Drouet ?” 

“We obey the nation.” 

“Allons, gentlemen,” said Isidor to his two companions, 
“ there are moments when the life of a man is nothing. Each 
of you charge one of these men : I will charge this one. We 
will drive ourselves.” 

And he seized the nearest postilion by the collar, and put the 
point of his hunting-kfiife to his breast. 

The queen saw the three knives sparkle, and uttered a cry. 

“Gentlemen,” said she, “gentlemen, pardon 1” and then to 
the postilions : “ My friends,” said she, “ you shall have fifty 
louis to divide amongst you now, and a pension of five hundred 
francs each, if you will save the king.” 

Whether they were frightened by the warlike demonstrations of 
the three young men, or whether they were seduced by the 
queen’s offer, the postilions re-commenced their journey. 

M. de Préfontaine went into his house, trembling, and locked 
the door. 

Isidor galloped before the carriage. He traversed the town 
and passed the bridge. In five minutes they would be at the 
Grand Monarque. The carriage descended the hill that con- 
ducted to the low town at a go('d rate : but on reaching the 


/£AN BAPTISTE DROUET 315 

entrance to the bridge they found one of the gates closed. They 
opened the gate ; two or three wagons barred the passage. 

“ Come !” said Isidor, jumping from his horse and pulling the 
wagons aside. 

At this moment they heard the first beat of the drum, and 
the first clang of the tocsin. Drouet had done his work. 

“Ah, fellow I” said Isidor, grinding his teeth, “if I find 
you.” 

And by a great effort he pushed one of the wagons aside, as 
M. de Malden and M. de Valory did the other. 

A third still remained in the way. 

“ Come ! the last one !” said Isidor ; and at the same time 
the wheels moved. 

All at once, between the spokes of the third wagon, they saw 
the barrels of four or five muskets thrust. 

“ A step further, and you die, gentlemen !” said a voice. 

“ Gentlemen, gentlemen !” said the king, “ do not attempt to 
force a passage. I order you not.” 

The two officers and Isidor drew back a step. 

“ What is it you wish ?” asked the king. 

At the same moment a cry of terror was heard from the car- 
nage. Besides the men who intercepted the passage of the 
I'ridge, two or three others had glided behind the carriage, and 
the guns of several appeared at the door. One of these was 
directed against the breast of the queen. 

Isidor saw all, and seized the barrel and knocked it up. 

“ Fire, fire !” cried several voices. One of the men obeyed, 
but happily his gun snapped. 

Isidor raised his arm, and would have poniarded the young 
man, but the queen caught his arm. 

“ Ah, madame 1” cried Isidor furiously, “ let me charge these 
ruffians.” 

“ No, monsieur. Put up your sword ! Listen!” 

Isidor half obeyed. He let his hunting knife fall half-way down 
the scabbard. 

“ Ah, if I could meet Drouet !” he murmured. ' 

“As for him,” said the queen, in a low tone, and grasping 
his arm firmly, as for him, I give you leave.” 

“Now, messieurs,” repeated the king, “what is it you 
wish ?” 

“ We wish to see the passports," replied two or three voices. 


THE C CUN T ESS DE CIIARNY. 


316 

“ The passports ?” said the king ; “go and fetch the autho- 
rities of the town, and we will show them to them.” 

“ Ay, by my kiith ! good manners !” cried the man whose 
gun had already snapped, throwing himself towards the king. 
But the two guards threw themselves between him and the king 
and seized him. In the struggle, the gun went off, but the ball 
struck no one. 

“ Halloa !” cried a voice, “ who fired ?” 

The man whom the guards had seized cried : “ Help ! help !” 
Five or six other armed men ran to his assistance. 

The two guards bared their hunting-knives, and prepared to 
fight. 

The king and the queen made useless efforts to stop both 
parties. The struggle was about to commence — terrible, mor- 
tal — when two men suddenly threw themselves into the midst 
of the mêlée, one girdled with a tricoloured scarf, the other 
dressed in a uniform. 

The man with the tricoloured scarf was Sausse, the procureur 
of the commune ; the other, in the uniform, was Hannonet, 
commander of the National Guards. Behind them, lit up by 
torches, were twenty guns. 

The king saw, in these two men, if not assistance, at least a 
guarantee of his safety. 

“Gentlemen,” said he, “ I am ready to trust myself, and those 
with me, to you, but defend us from the brutality of these 
people.” And he pointed to the men armed with guns. 

“ Ground your arms, gentlemen !” said Hannonet. The 
men grumblingly obeyed. 

“ You will excuse us, monsieur,” said the procureur of the 
commune, addressing the king, “ but the report is spread that 
his majesty Louis XVI. is fled, and it is our duty to see for our- 
selves if it is true.” 

“ To see if it is true !” cried Isidor. “ If it were true that this 
carriage contained the king, you ought to be at his feet. If, on 
the contrary, it only contains a private gentleman, why do you 
stop us ?” 

“ Monsieur !” said Sausse, continuing to address the king, 
“ it is to you I speak ; will you do me the honour of an- 
swering ?” 

“ Sire,” said Isidor, in a whisper, “ gain time ; M. de Damas 
and his dragoons follow us, without doubt, and it will not bç 
long before they arrive.” 


317 


JEAN BAPTISTE DROUET. 

‘‘ You are right,” said the king. Then, answering M. Sausse, 
“A li if oiir ) assjjorts are correct, you will let us continue our 
rouie, monsieur?” 

“ Without doubt,” said Sausse. 

“Well, then, Madame la Baronne,” said the king, addressing 
himself to Madame de Tourzel, “ have the goodness to seek for 
your passport, and give it to these gentlemen.” 

Madame de Tourzel complied with what the king meant to 
say, by the w^ords, “ have the goodness to seek for your pass- 
port.” She commenced immediately to hunt up the passport, 
but in the pockets where it certainly was not. 

“ Ah !” said an impatient threatening voice, “you know well 
you have no passports.” 

“Pardon, gentlemen,’’ said the queen, “we have one, but 
ignorant that we w’ere going to be asked for it, Madame de 
Korff does not know where she put it.” 

A kind of humming went through the crowd, implying that 
they were not to be duped by any subterfuge. 

“ There is something more simple than all this,” said Sausse. 
“ Postilions, drive the carriage to my store. These ladies and 
gentlemen will come into my house, and there all can be put 
right. Forward ! gentlemen of the National Guard, escort the 
carriage !” 

This invitation resembled an order too much for any one to 
gainsay it, and* if they had attempted they would probably not 
have succeeded. The tocsin continued to ring, the drum to 
beat, and the crowd to increase at each step. 

More than a hundred persons, accompanying the carriage, 
remained on the outside of the house of M. Sausse, which was 
situated in a little square. 

“ Well,” said the king, as he entered. 

“ Well, monsieur,” replied Sausse, “ we were speaking of the 
passport ; if the lady who is said to be the mistress of the car- 
riage will show hers, I will carry it to the municipality, where 
the council is sitting, and see if it is correct.” 

As in any case the passport given by Madame de Korff 
to Count Charny and by Count Charnyto the queen, was quite 
correct, the king made a sign to Madame de Tourzel to give it 
up. 

She drew this precious paper from her pocket and put it into 
the hands of M. Sausse, who bade his wife do the honours of 
his house to his mysterious guests, and left for the municipality. 


THE COUNTESS DE C /LIE NK 


3ï8 

As Drouet was present at the sitting, every one there was 
very excited. M. Sausse entered with the passport Each 
knew that the travellers had been conducted to his house, and 
on his arrival curiosity made them silent He deposited the 
passport before the mayor. 

We have already given the contents of this passport After 
having read it ; “ Gentlemen,” said the mayor, “the passport 

is perfectly good.” 

“ Good !” repeated eight or ten voices with astonishment, 
and at the same time their hands stretched out to receive it 

“ Without doubt, good,” said the mayor, “ for the king’s 
signature is there.” And he shoved the passport towards the 
stretched-out hands, which seized it immediately. 

But Drouet nearly tore it from the hands that held it : 
“Signed by the king?” said he, “ w'ell, so it may be; but is he 
one of the National Assembly?” 

“ Yes,” said one of his neighbours, who was reading the pass* 
port at the same time as himself, and by the light of the candle, 
“ I see the signature of a member of one of the committees.” 

“But,” replied Drouet, “is it that of the president? And, 
besides all that,” went on the young patriot, “ the travellers are 
not Madame Korff, a Russian lady, her children, her steward, 
her woman, and three servants, but the king, the queen, the 
dauphin, Madame Royale, Madame Elizabeth, some great lady 
of the palace, .three couriers — the royal family, in fact ! Will 
you, or will you not. permit the royal family to leave France ?” 

The question was placed in its proper light ; but, place it as 
you would, it was a very difficult one for the authorities of a 
third-rate town like Varennes to determine. 

Then they deliberated, and the deliberation promised to be 
so long that the procureur determined to leave them to it and 
returned home. 

The king advanced three steps to meet him. “ Well,” he 
asked, with an anxiety that he strove in vain to conceal, “ the 
passport ?” 

“The passport,” replied M. Sausse, “at this moment, I 
ought to say, has raised a great discussion at the municipality.” 

“ And why ?” demanded Louis XVL; “ they doubt its validity, 
perhaps ?” 

“ No — but they doubt its belonging really to Madame de 
Korff ; and the rumour goes that it is in reality the king and 
his family that we have the honour to have in our walls,” 


JEAAT BAPTISTE DROUET, 319 

Louis XVI. hesitated replying for a moment ; then, deter- 
mining all at once what to do — 

“ Yes, monsieur,” said he, “ I am the king, that is the queen, 
those are my children ! and I beg you to treat us with that re- 
spect which the French have always shown their kings.” 

A great number of the curious surrounded the door. The 
words of the king were heard, not only within, but without too. 

Unfortunately, if he who had just pronounced these words 
had said them with a certain dignity, the grey coat in which he 
was dressed, and the little peruke, à la Jean Jacques, that orna- 
mented his head, would not have corresponded with his dignity. 
To find a King of France in such an ignoble disguise ! The 
queen felt the impression produced on the multitude, and 
coloured to the very temples. 

“ Let us accept the offer of Madame Sausse,” said she, 
quickly, “and go upstairs.” 

M. Sausse took a light and went towards the stairs, to show 
the way to his illustrious guests. 

During this time, the news that it w^as really the king who was 
at Varennes, and that he had said so wûih his own lips, flew 
through every street in the town. A man rushed into the 
municipality. “ Gentlemen,” said he, “ the travellers stopping 
at M. Sausse’s really are the royal family ! I heard the confes- 
sion from the king’s own mouth !” 

“Eh bien ! gentlemen,” cried Drouet, “v^hat did I tell you?” 

At the same time a great hubbub was heard in the streets, 
and the tocsin continued to clang and the drums to beat. 

A deputation of the commune soon arrived, who said to Louis 
XVI. : 

“ Since it is no longer doubtfjl that the inhabitants of Va- 
rennes have the happinesss to possess their king, they come to 
take his orders.” 

“ My orders ?” replied the king, “ direct my carriages, then, 
to be got ready, so that I may continue my route.” 

None of the municipal deputation knew what to reply to this 
demand. Just then the gallop of the horses of De Choiseul was 
heard, and the hussars were seen to draw up with bare blades in 
the square. 

The queen became highly excited, and a ray of joy passed 
across her eyes. “ We are saved i” murmured she, in the eai 
of Madame Elizabeth. 


300 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


‘‘ God grant it to be so !” said the piire-hearted, lamb-lika 
woman, who appealed to God under all circumstances. 

The king arose and listened. 

The municipal officers seemed uneasy. 

Just then a loud noise was heard in the ante-chamber, which 
was guarded by peasants armed with scythes : a few words were 
interchanged, and then a contest ensued, and De Choiseul, 
bare-headed and hat in hand, appeared at the door. 

Behind him appeared the pale head and resolute face of 
M. Damas. 

In the expression of the two officers’ faces there was such» an 
air of menace, that the members of the commune separated, 
leaving an open space between the new-comers and the royal 
family. 

When she saw De Choiseul, the queen crossed the whoie 
length of the room and gave him her hand ; “ Ah, sir ! is it you ? 
You are welcome.” 

“ Alas ! madame, I have come very late.’' 

“ It matters not ; you have come in good company.” 

“ Madame, we are almost alone. M. Dar.»doins has been 
detained with his dragoons at St. Menehould, and M. Damas 
has been deserted by his men.” 

The queen shook her head. 

“ But,” said De Choiseul, “ where is M. de Bouille ? where 
is De Raigecourt ?” and he looked anxiously around him. 

“ I have not seen those gentlemen,” said the king, who had 
approached. 

“ Sire,’’ said Damas, ‘T give you my word of honour I believed 
they were killed in front of your carriage.”’ 

“ What must be none ?” said Louis XVI. 

“ Sire, I have forty hussars here. They have marched forty 
leagues to day, but will go much farther to serve you.” 

“ But how ?” asked the king. 

“Listen, sire,” said De Choiseul. «This is all that can be 
done : I have, as I said, forty hussars. I will dismount seven. 
You will mount one of the horses, with the dauphin in your 
arms, the queen will take a second, Madame Elizabeth a third, 
and Madame Royale a fourth. Mesdames de Tourzel, de 
Neuville, and Breunier, whom you will not leave, will mount 
the others. We will surround you with the thirty-three hussars, 
and cut our way through. Thus we shall have a chance of 
escape, Reflect, though, sire. If you adopt this course, you 


/EAN BAPTISTE DROUET. 321 

must do it at once, for in an hour, or half hour, the soldiers will 
have left me.” 

M. de Choiseul awaited the king’s order. The queen appeared 
to like the project, and looked at Louis XVL, as if to question 
him. But he, on the contrary, seemed to shun the eyes of the 
queen, and the infiuenc-e which she could exert over him. At 
last, looking M. de Choiseul in the face : “Yes,” said he, “ I 
know well that there is a way, and only one, perhaps ; but can 
you answer me that in this unequal contest of thirty-three men 
against seven or eight hundred, some shots will not kill my son, 
my daughter, the queen, or my sister ?” 

“ Sire,” replied Choiseul, “ if such a misfortune happened, and 
happened because you had yielded to my counsel, I should kill 
myself before your majesty’s eyes.” 

“ Well, then,” said the king, “ instead of yielding to these wild 
projects, let us reason coolly.” 

The queen sighed, and moved two or three steps away. In 
this she did not feign regret. She met Isidor, who, attracted by 
the noise in the street, and still hoping that it was occasioned 
by the arrival of his brother, had approached the window. They 
exchanged t\vo or three w'ords, and Isidor left the room. 

The king seemed not to have noticed what passed between 
Isidor and the queen, and said : “ The municipality refuses to 
let me pass. It wishes that I should wait here until the break of 
day. I do not speak of the Count de Charny, who is so sincerely 
devoted to us, and of whom we have no news, but the Chevalier 
de Bouille and M. de Raigecourt left, as I am assured, ten 
minutes after my arrival, to warn the Marquis de Bouillé, and 
cause the troops to march, w'hich were surely ready. If I were 
alone, I would follow your counsel and pass on ; but the queen, 
my two children, my sister, and these two ladies, it is impossible 
to risk, especially with the few people you have, for I would 
not certainly go leaving my three guards here.” He took out 
his W’atch. “It is near three o’clock. Young De Bouillé left 
at half past twelve. His father has certainly formed his troops 
in échelons, one before the other. The first will be advised by 
the chevalier. They will arrive successively. It is only eight 
'leagues from here to Stenay. In tw^o hours, or three hours and 
a half, a man may easily get over the distance on horseback. 
Detachments will continue ihen to arrive throughout the nigl.t, 
Towards five or six o’clock, the Marquis de Bouillé will be here 


322 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


in person, and then, without any danger to my family, without 
any violence, we will leave Varennes and continue on our way.” 

M. de Choiseul assented to the logic of this reasoning, and 
yet his instinct told him that there are certain moments when it 
is not necessary to listen to logic. 

He turned then towards the qaeen,and by his looks seemed to 
supplicate her to give him other orders, or at least get the king to 
revoke those that he had already given. But she shook her head 

“ I do not wish to take anything on myself,” said she ; it is 
for the king to command, my duty is to obey. Besides, I am 
of the opinion of the king. It cannot be long before M. de 
Bouillé arrives.” 

M. de Choiseul bowed, and drew some steps back, taking M. 
de Damas with him, with whom he wished to concert measures, 
and making a sign to the two guards to come and share in their 
councils, when a second deputation arrived, consisting of M. 
Sausse, M. Hanncnet, commander of the National Guard, and 
of three or four municipal officers. 

They caused their names to be announced, and the king, 
thinking that they came to say the carriages were ready, ordered 
them to be admitted. 

The young officers, who interpreted every sign, every move- 
ment, every gesture, fancied they saw in Sausse’s face something 
of hesitation, and in that of HannOnet a determined will, which 
seemed to them a good augury. 

The king looked anxiously at the envoys of the commune, 
and awaited until they spoke to him. They did not speak, but 
bowed. Louis XVL did not seem to mistake them. “Mes- 
sieurs,” said he, “the French people have only gone astray, for 
their love of their sovereigns is real. Weary of the perpetual 
outrages I have been subjected to in my capital, I have decided 
to withdraw into the provinces, where the holy fire of devotion 
yet burns. There, 1 am sure, I shall find the love the people 
of France are wont to bear their rulers.” 

The envoys bowed again. 

“ I am willing to give my people a proof of my confidence. 
I have come to take hence a force, composed one half of troops 
of the line, one half of tiie National Guard, with which I will 
go to Montmédy, where I have determined to fix myself. The 
consequence is, M. Hannonet, as commander of the National 
Guard, I wish you to select the troops who are to accompany 
roe, and to have the horses put to my carriage.” 


/J:AX BAPTîi^TE DROLET, 


323 


There was a moment of silence, during which Sausse expected 
Hannonet to speak, and when Hannonet thought Sausse would 
speak. 

Hannonet at last bowed. He said : “ Sire, I would obey the 
orders of your majesty, but for a clause which forbids the king 
to leave France, and all Frenchmen to aid him in doing so.” 

The king trembled. 

“ Consequently,” said Hannonet, making a gesture to beseech 
the king to let him finish, “and consequently, the' municipality 
of Varennes has resolved, before it suffers the king to pass, to 
send a courier to Paris, to ask the will of the National As 
sembly.” 

The king felt the sweat roll from his Brow, and the queen bit 
her lips with impatience. Madame Elizabeth clasped her hands 
and looked to heaven. 

“ So, so, gentlemen,” said the king, with that dignity which 
always came to his aid when forced to an extremity ; “ am I no 
longer able to go whither I please ? if so, I am a more abject 
slave than the humblest of my subjects.” 

“Sire,” said Hannonet, “you are still our master, but the 
humblest of all men, king or citizen, is bound by his oath. You 
mads an oath. Sire, obey the law. This is not only a great 
example to follow, but to give.” 

The king saw that if, without resistance, he submitted to this 
rebellion — and such he thought it — of a village municipality, 
he was lost. 

“ Gentlemen,” said he, “this is violence. I am not, though, 
so isolated as 1 seem. Before my door are forty faithful men, 
and around Varennes I have ten thousand soldiers. I order 
you, then, M. Hannonet, commander of the National Guard, 
to have the horses at once put to my carriage. I order, and 
will have it so.” 

The queen drew near, and in a low tone said : “Very well, 
sire ! let us risk our lives, but not our honour.” 

“ And if we refuse to obey your majesty, what will be the 
result ?” 

“ The result will be that I will appeal to force, and that you 
will be responsible for the blood that will be shed, and which 
you really will have spilled.” 

“ So be it, sire,” said Hannonet. “ Call your hussars — I will 
appeal to the National Guard.” 

He left the room. The king and queen looked at each other 

21—2 


THE COUNTESS EE C//AEA K 


524 

in terror, and the latter, seeing the danger of their position, 
hastily taking the dauphin, who was yet asleep, from his bed, 
went to the window, and tiirowing it open, said : 

“ Monsieur, let us show ourselves to the people, and ascertain 
if they be entirely gangrened. Let us appeal to the soldiers, 
and encourage them with our voices. That is as little as those 
who are ready to die for us can expect."’* 

'I'he king followed mechanically, and appeared with her on 
the balcony. 

The square into which Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette 
looked seemed a prey to the greatest agitation. 

One half of the hussars of M. de Choiseul were mounted, and 
the others on foot. Those who were on foot were pulled about, 
lost, drowned amid the people, and suffered themselves, with 
their horses, to be taken anywhere. They were already won 
over by the nation. The others, who were on horseback, seemed 
submissive to M. de Choiseul, whospoke to them in German: but 
they informed him that half of the troop had mutinied. 

The cry of The king ! the king 1” was at once uttered by 
five hundred mouths. 

De Choiseul was desperate, and wished to die. He made 
one effort. “ Hussars 1” said he, “ in honour’s name save the 
king !” 

Just at that moment, surrounded by twenty armed men, a 
new actor appeared on the stage. Drouet came from the 
municipality, where he had resolved to stop the king’s journey. 
“ Ah !” said he, as he passed De Choiseul, “ you would convey 
the king away ! I tell you, that if you do, you will take away 
only his body.” 

Choiseul advanced with his drawn sword. The commander 
of the National Guard was there, and said : “ M. de Choiseul, 
if you come a foot nearer, I will kill you !” 

Just then a man advanced whom no threat or menace could 
induce to pause. It was Isidor de Charny. The man he 
looked for was Drouet. 

“ Back, back!” said he, driving his spurs into his horse, “ that 
man belongs to me !” 

He rushed on Drouet with his couteau de chasse. 

When he was just within reach, two shots were fired, one from 
a pistol, and the other from a gun. The ball from the latter struck 
him in the breast. 

The tw'o shots were fired so near to him that the unfortunate 


JEAN BAPTISTE DROUET 


325 


young man was literally wrapped in flame and smoke. He 
reached out his arms, and, as he fell, exclaimed, “ Poor Cathe- 
rine !” 

Letting the couteau de chasse fall, he sank back on the crupper 
of his horse, and thence to the ground. 

The queen uttered a terrible cry, and nearly let the dauphin 
fall from her arms ; but as she was dropping into a chair she 
saw another horseman coming down the pathway Isidor had 
made in the crowd. 

'rhe king, when the queen had retired, turned and shut the 
window. 

Not a few voices only cried, “ Vive la Nation !” — not a few 
hussars ; the whole crowd did so. Only twenty hussars re- 
mained faithful, and they were the hope of the French mon- 
archy. 

The queen threw herself in a chair, and with her hands over 
her face saw Isidor de Charny die, as she had seen George. 

All at once a loud noise was heard, and she looked up. 

We will not seek to tell what passed in the mind of the woman 
and the queen. Olivier de Charny, pale and bloody with the 
last embrace of his brother, stood at the door. 

Sombre and calm, he made a sign to the persons who were 
present, and said : 

“ Excuse me, messieurs, I must speak to their majesties.” 

The National Guards sought to makç him understand that 
they were there to keep his majesty from having any communi- 
cation with any one else. 

Charny, however, folded his pale lips, knit his brow, opened 
his frock, and showed a pair of pistols, repeating, at the same 
time, in a gentler but more positive voice than he had before : 

“ Gentlemen, I had the honour to tell you that I wished to 
speak to the king and queen alone !” 

Pie at the same time made with his hand a gesture for all 
strangers to leave the room. 

The voice, the power of Charny, exercised on himself and 
others, animated Damas and the guardsmen, who resumed all 
their energy, and at once they drove the National Guards from 
the room. 

Then the queen saw how useful such a man would have been 
in the carriage, had not etiquette demanded that Madame de 
Tourzel should have been his substitute. 


326 THE COUNTESS DE Cil ARN Y, 

Charny looked around to see that none but the queen’s faith- 
ful servitors were present, and, approaching, said, 

“ Madame, I have seventy hussars at the gates, and can rely 
on them. What orders do you give ?” 

‘‘ Tell me first, dear Charny,” said the queen in German, 
“ what has happened ?” 

The count made a gesture, which told the queen that De 
Malden, who was there, also spoke German. 

“ Alas !” said the queen, “ we did not see you, and thought 
you dead.” 

“Unfortunately, madame,” said Charny, “I am not dead, 
but,” and he spoke in deep sadness, “my poor brother is.” He 
could not restrain a tear ; but he added, in a low tone, “ My 
time will come.” 

“ Charny I Charny ! I ask what is the matter ? Why did you 
leave me thus ?” asked the queen ; adding, in German, “ You 
treated us badly, especially ourselves.” 

Charny bowed. 

“ I fancied,” he said, “that my brother had told you why.” 

“ Yes, I know ; you pursued that wretch Drouet, and we at 
once saw trouble in the fact.” 

“ I did meet with a great misfortune. In spite of every effort, 
I could not overtake him in time. A returning postilion told 
him that your majesty’s carriage, which he had intended to 
follow to Verdun, had gone to Varennes, and he then went in the 
wood of Argonne. I followed, and sought twice to shoot him, but 
the weapons were not loaded. I did not get my horse at St. 
Menehould, but used Dandoins’ instead. Ah, madame ! about 
all this there was fatality. I followed him through the forest, 
but did not know the roads, while he was familiar with every 
by-path. The darkness became every hour more intense, and 
as long as I could see him or hear him I followed. At last 
light and the sound of his horse’s heels passed away, and I 
found myself lost in the darkness of the forest. Madame, I am 
a man— you know me ; I do not weep now, but then I wept 
tears of rage.” 

'J'he queen gave him her hand. 

Charny bowed, and touched it with the tip of his lips. 

“ No one replied to my cries. I wandered all night, and at 
dawn I was at Genes, on the road from Varennes to Dun. Had 
you escaped Drouet, as he had me ? But that was impossible : 
you had passed Varennes, and it was useless to go for you thither. 


/EAJV BAPTISTE DROUET, 


327 


Not far from the city I met M. Deslon and a hundred hussars. 
He was uneasy, but had no news except that not long before 
he had seen MM. de Bouillé and de Raigecourt flying across 
the bridge to tell the general what had gone on. I told M. 
Deslon all ; I besought him to come with me, with his hussars, 
which he did at once, leaving only thirty to guard the bridge 
over the Meuse. In half an hour we were at Varennes, and 
have come the whole distance, four leagues, in one hour. 1 
wished to begin the attack at once, to charge everything, even if 
we found barricade on barricade. At Varennes, howevei, we 
found some so high that it would have been madness to seek to 
pass them. I then tried to parley. There was an advance of 
the National Guards thrown out, and I asked leave to join my 
hussars with those who were in the city. This was refused. I 
then asked to send to the king for orders, and as they would 
have refused this, as they did the first request, I leaped my 
horse over the first barricade and also the second. Guided by 
the noise, I galloped up, and reached the square just when your 
majesty had left the balcony. Now,” said Charny, “ I await 
your majesty’s orders.” 

The queen clasped Charny’s hand in her own. 

She then turned to the king, who seemed plunged into a 
perfect state of torpor. 

“ Sire,” said she, “ have you heard what our faithful friend, 
the Count de Charny, has said ?” 

The king did not reply. 

The queen then arose and w^ent to him. 

“ Sire,” said she, “ there is no time to be lost, for unfortu- 
nately we have already lost too much. M. de Charny has 
seventy safe men, and asks for orders.” 

The king shook his head. 

Sire, for heaven’s sake give your orders !” 

Charny looked imploringly while the queen besought him. 

“ My orders !” said the king. “ I have none to give. I am 
a prisoner. Do all you can.” 

“Very well,” said the queen, “that is all we ask.” 

She took Charny aside. “ You have a carte-blanche,” said 
she. “ Do as the king told you — all you can. She then said, 
in a low tone : “ Be quick, however ; act with vigour, or we 
are lost.’ 

“ Very well, madame. Let me confer for a moment with 


THE COUNTESS DE CÎ/ARNY, 


328 

these gentlemen, and what we decide on will De done at 
once.” 

De Choiseul came in. He had in his hand a bundle of papers 
wrapped up in a bloody handkerchief. He said nothing, but 
gave them to Charny. 

The count at once understood that they were the papers found 
upon his brother. He took the bloody inheritance in his hand 
and kissed it The queen could not but sob. Charny did not 
change, but placed the relics on his heart. 

“ Gentlemen,” said he, “ will you aid me in the last effort I 
shall make ?” 

“ We are ready to sacrifice our lives,” said all 
Think you twelve men are yet faithful ?” 

“ Here stand nine, at least.” 

“ Well, I have sixty or seventy hussars. While I attack the 
barricades in front, do you make a diversion in the rear. I will 
then force the barricades, and with our united forces we shall 
be able to carry off the king.” 

In reply, the young men gave Charny their hands. 

He then turned to the queen and said, “ Madame, in an nonr 
I shall be dead or your majesty free.” 

“ Count,” said the queen, “ say not so. Liberty would be too 
dear.” 

Olivier bowed a reiteration of his promise, and without pay- 
ing any attention to the fresh rumours and clamours which 
broke out, advanced to the door. 

But just as he advanced his hand to the key, the door opened 
and admitted a new personage, who was already about to mingle 
in the complicated intrigue of the drama. 

He was a man of about fifty or fifty-two years of age, with a 
dark stern look. His collar was turned back, his neck bare, and 
his eyes were flushed with fatigue. His dusty apparel showed 
tiiat some great exertion had urged him to attempt a mad jour- 
ney. He had a pair of pistols, and a sabre hung to his belt. 
Panting and almost breathless, when he opened the door, he 
seemed to be satisfied when he recognised the king and queen. 
A smile of gratified vengeance passed over his face, and with- 
out paying any attention to the minor personages who stood 
in the back part of the room, he reached forth his hand and 
said : 

“ In the name of the National Assembly, all of you are my 
prisoners.” 


JEAN BAPTISTE DROUET. 


329 


With a gesture, rapid as thought, M. de Choiseul rushed 
forward with a cocked pistol, and seemed ready to kill the new- 
comer, who exceeded in insolence and resolution all they had 
yet seen. 

By a movement yet more rapid, the queen seized his hand, 
and said in a low tone : “ Do not be too hasty, M de Choiseul. 
All the time we gain is gained, for M. de Bouillé cannot be 
far off.’^ 

You are right, madame,” said De Choiseul, and he replaced 
his weapon. 

The queen glanced at Charny, amazed that in this new danger 
he had not thrown himself forward. Strange though it was, 
Charny did not wish the new-comer to see him, and, to escape 
his eye, retired to the darkest corner of the room. 

The queen, however, knew the count, and did not doubt 
but that, as soon as he was wanted, he would emerge from that 
recesSi 


CHAPTER XXX. 

ANOTHER ENEMY. 

All this scene of M. de Choiseul menacing the man who spoke 
in the name of the Assembly passed without his even seennng 
to remark that he had but narrowly escaped death. He seemed 
also to be occupied by a far more powerful sentiment than that 
of fear. There was no mistaking the expression of his face. He 
had the bearing of the hunter who sees before him the lion and 
lioness who had devoured his young. 

The word “ prisoners,” however, had aroused De Choiseul, 
and the king had sprung to his feet. 

“ Prisoners ! prisoners ! in the name of the National Assembly. 
I do not understand you.” 

“ It is, however, easy to be understood,” said the man. “In 
spite of the oath you took not to leave France, you fled in the 
night, broke your word, betrayed the nation, and insulted the 


THE COUNTESS DE CHAkS K 


33 ^ 

people. The nation has now appealed to arms, the people have 
risen, and through the mouth of one of the humblest, though 
not on that account the least powerful, says : ‘ Sire, in the name 
of the people and the National Assembly, you are my prisoner.’ ” 

In the next room sounds of applause, accompanied by mad 
bravoes were heard. 

‘' Madame,” said De Choiseul, whispering to the queen, 
“you will not forget that you stopped me. Otherwise you 
would not be exposed to such an offence.” 

“ All this will be nothing,” said she, “ if we can but avenge 
ourselves.” 

“ Yes,” said De Choiseul, “ but if we do not ?” 

pie queen uttered a sad and melancholy sigh. 

The hand of Charny passed over De Choiseul’s hand, and 
touched the queen’s. 

Marie Antoinette turned quickly round. 

“ Let that man do and say what he will. I will take charge 
of him.” 

In the meantime the king, completely overcome with the new 
blow which had been dealt him, looked with amazement at the 
sombre personage who, in the name of the nation and the king, 
spoke so energetically to him. There was also some curiosity 
mingled with this feeling, for it seemed to Louis XVI., though 
he could not recall having seen him before, he knew that he had 
not met him for the first time. 

“ What do you want ?” said he. 

“ Sire, I wish that neither you nor your family should leave 
France.” 

“ And you have doubtless come with thousands of men to 
oppose my march ?” said the king, who put on all his dignity. 

“ No, sire ; but two have come — myself and the aide-de- 
camp of Lafayette ; I am a mere peasant. The Assembly, 
however, has published a decree, and confided its execution to 
me. It will be executed.” 

“ Give me the decree,” said the king. 

“ It is not in my possession ; my companion has been sent by 
Lafayette ani the Assembly to have the ciders of the king 
executed. I am sent by M. Bailly, and also have come, on my 
own account, to blow out the brains of my companion if he 
should quail at all.” 

The queen, M de Damas, and the others who were present, 
looked on with amazement. They had nevr;r seen the people, 


ANO:iI£R ENEMY. 


331 


either oppressed or furicus, except asking mercy when being 
murdered, and now for the first time saw it with folded arms, 
and heard it demand its rights. 

Louis XVI. at once saw nothing w’as to be expected from a 
man of that temper, and wished to have done with him. 

Well !” said he, “ where is your companion ?” 

Here, behind me.” 

As he spoke, he threw open the door, behind which stood a 
young man in the uniform of an officer of the staff, leaning 
against a window. 

He also seemed to suffer much ; but he suffered from w^ant of 
strength, not from w^ant of mental power. He wept, and had a 
paper in his hands. 

It v/as De Romœuf, the young aide-de-camp of Lafayette, 
whom our readers will remember to have seen when Louis de 
Rouillé arrived in Paris. 

De Romœuf, as may be deemed from the conversation he 
then had with the young royalist, was a true and sincere patriot; 
during the dictatorship, however, of Lafayette at the Tuileries, 
he had been assigned the care of the queen and the charge of 
her excursions. He had always treated her with a respectful 
delicacy which had often W'on the queen’s thanks. 

“ Ah, sir !” said the queen, pa nfully surprised, “ is it you ?” 

With that painful sigh, which indicated that a power almost 
invincible w^as falling, she said ; 

“ Oh, I never w^ould have believed it !” 

“ It is well,” said the other delegate. “ It seems that I w^as 
right to come.” 

De Romœuf advanced slowdy, with dowmcast eyes, holding his 
order in his hand. The king did not how^ever, permit the 
young man to present the decree ; he advanced rapidly, and 
took it from his hands. 

Having read it, he said : 

“ France now has no king !” 

The man who came in with De Romœuf said : I know 
that well enough.” 

The king and the queen looked around, as if they world 
question him. 

He said : Here, madame, is the decree the National 
Assembly has dared to pass.’' 

With a voice trembling with indignation, he read the follow’- 
ing words: “The National Assembly orders the Minister of 


333 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


the Interior to send out, at once, couriers to the different depart 
ments, with orders to all civil functionaries, and the officers 
of the National Guard, troops of the line, and the empire, to ar- 
rest anyone, whoever he may be, seeking to leave the kingdom, 
and to prevent all exportation of property, arms, munitions, 
gold, and silver. In case these couriers overtake the king, or 
any members of the royal family, or those who have contributed 
to their escape, the said National Guards and troops of the line 
are ordered to use every effort to prevent the said escape, and 
cause the fugitives to cease their journey, and return, to submit 
themselves to the Legislative Assembly.” 

The queen heard all this with a kind of torpor ; when he had 
finished, she shook her head, as if to arouse herself, and said, 
“ Give it to me !” As she reached forth her hand to receive the 
fatal decree, she said, “ Impossible !” 

While this was going on, the companion of M. de Romœuf, 
by a bitter smile, infused confidence into the National Guards 
and the patriots of Varennes. 

The word “impossible,” pronounced by the queen, had 
made them uneasy, though they had heard every letter of the 
decree. 

“ Read, madame !” said the king, bitterly ; “ if you doubt 
me, read, for it is signed by the President of the National As- 
sembly.” 

“ VVho dared to write and sign such a document ?” 

“ A noble, madame,” said the king, “ the Marquis de Beatl» 
harnais.” 

Is it not a strange thing, proving the mysterious union of the 
past with the present, that this decree, which arrested the flight 
of the king, queen, and royal family, emanated from a man who, 
until then obscure, was about to unite himself in the most 
brilliant manner to the history of the nineteenth century ? 

The queen took the decree, and with wrinkled brows and 
contracted lips read it again. 

The king then took it and re-read it. Having done so, he 
threw it on the bed, where, insensible to all that was going on, 
slept the dauphin and Madame Royale. That document, how- 
ever, was decisive of their fate. 

When she saw them, the queen could not restrain herself, 
but sprang up, and crushing the paper, threw it from her. “Take 
care, sire 1” said she, “I will not have this paper sully my 
children I” 


ANOTHER ENEMY, 


333 


A loud cry was heard in the ante-chamber ; the National 
Guards sought to enter the room occupied by the royal fugitives. 
The aide-de-camp of Lafayette uttered a cry of terror — his com- 
panion one of rage. 

“Oh!” said the latter between his teeth, “the National 
Assembly — the nation is insulted ! This is well ” 

Turning towards the crowd, already excited to the very acme 
of strife, and who stood around, armed with guns, scythes, and 
sabres, he said : “ Here, citizens ! here 1” 

The latter, to enter the chamber, made a second movement 
which was but the completion of the first. God only knows 
what would have resulted from this contest had not Charny, 
who from the commencement of the scene had said only the 
few words we have recorded, rushed forward and seized 
the arm of the unknown National Guard, and said, just as the 
latter was about to place his hand on his sabre : “ A word with 
you, M. Billot, if you please !” 

“ Very well ! M. de Charny ; I also would speak to you.” 

Advancing towards the door, he said: “Citizens ! go for a 
moment. I have something to say to this officer ; be easy, 
though, for neither the wolf, dam, nor cubs will escape us — I 
will be answerable for them.” 

As if this man, who was unknown to them, as he was — except 
to Charny— to king, queen, and all, had a right to give them 
orders, they withdrew, and left the room free. 

Each one also was anxious to tell his companions what had 
taken place, and to advise them to be on their guard. 

In the meantime Charny said, in a low tone, to the queen, 
“ M. de Romœuf, madame, is your friend. Do the best you 
can with him.” This he rendered the more easy, when he came 
to the next room, by shutting the door and keeping all, even 
Billot, from entering it. He stood with his back against it. 

The two men, on finding themselves tète-à-tête, looked at 
each other a few moments ; but the look of the gentleman 
could not make the democrat lower his eyes — nay, more, it was 
Billot who first began to speak. 

“M. le Comte has done me the honour to announce that he 
has something to say to me. I will listen to anything he wishes 
to say.” 

“ Billot !” asked Charny, “ how is it that I here find you 
charged with a mission of vengeance ? I had thought you our 


334 


THE COUNT E3:^ DE CIIARXY, 


friend — a friend to the other nobles, and, moreover, a good and 
faithful subject of the king’s.” 

“ I have been a good and faithful subject of the king’s, and I 
have been not your friend — for such an honour was not re- 
served for a poor farmer like me — but I have been your humble 
servant.” 

“ Well !” 

“ Well, M. le Comte, you see I am no longer anything ot the 
kind.” 

“ I do not understand you, Billot,” replied the count. 

“ Why do you wish to understand me, count ? Do I ask you 
the cause of your fidelity to the king, and the reasons for your 
great devotion to the queen ? No ; I presume that you have 
your reasons for acting thus, and that you are an honest and a 
wise man — that your reasons are good, or at least according to 
your conscience. I have not your high position in society, M. 
le Comte ; I have not either your knowledge, but yet you know 
me to be, or have known me to have been, an honest and 
prudent man, too. Suppose, then, that like you, I have 
my reasons, equally as good, and equally according to my 
conscience.” 

“ Billot !” said Charny, who was ignorant completely of any 
motives of hatred the farmer could possibly have against nobility 
or royalty, “ I have known you — and it is not so very long 
since — very differetit from what you are to-day.” 

“ Oh, certainly ! I do not deny it !” said Billot, with a bitter 
smile. “ Yes, you have known me very different from what I am 
now. I am about to tell you, M. le Comte, what I was — I was a 
true patriot, devoted thoroughly to two men and one thing, 
d'hese two men were Doctor Gilbert and the king — this thing was 
my country. One day the agents of the king — and I confess to 
you,” said the farmer, shaking his head, “ that that first began the 
(luarrel betwixt the king and myself— one day the agents of the 
king came to my house, and half by force and half by surprise, 
carried off a casket from me, which had been trusted to my care 
by M. Gilbert. As soon as I was at liberty, I started for Paris. 
1 arrived there on the evening of the 13th of July, right in the 
midst of the commotions about the busts of the Duke of Orleans 
an i M. Necker — they carried these busts through the streets, 
crying, * Vive the Duke of Orleans ! vive M. Necker !’ This was 
doing no great harm to the king, and yet all at once the soldiers 
of the king charged us. I saw poor devils who had committed 


AXOTIIER ENEMY 


?35 

fio other crime than the crying long lije to two men whom they 
probably did not know, fall around me, some with their heads 
cut through with the sabres, and others with their breasts pierced 
by balls. I saw M. de Lambesq, a friend of the king, pursue 
— even into the Tuileries — w^omen and children w’ho had never 
uttered a word, and trample down under his horse’s feet an old 
man of at least seventy. This made me quarrel with the king 
still more. Next day I called at the school of little Sebastian, 
and I learned from the poor child that his father had been sent 
to the Bastile by an order of the king’s, obtained from his 
majesty by a lady of the court ; and I continued to say to my- 
self that the king, who they pretended was so good, had, in the 
midst of this goodness, many moments of error, ignorance, and 
forgetfulness ; and to correct, as far as in me lay, one of these 
faults that the king had committed in those moments of forgetful- 
ness, ignorance, or error, I contributed all in my pow’er to take 
the Bastile. We arrived there; it was not without trouble. The 
soldiers of the king fired at us, and killed nearly two hundred 
men amongst us, and this gave me a fresh reason for not being 
of the opinion of all the world about this great goodness of the 
king. But at length the Bastile was taken, and in one of the cells 
I found M. Gilbert, for whom I had risked my life tw^enty times, 
and the joy of finding him again made me forget all these things. 
Besides, M. Gilbert told me amongst the first that the king wtiS 
good, that he was ignorant of a great many of the shameful things 
that w'ere done in his name, and that it w^as not to him they 
ought to be attributed, but to his ministers. And all that M. 
Gilbert told me at this time was like Gospel — I believed M. 
Gilbert : and seeing the Bastile taken, M. Gilbert free, and Pitou 
and I safe and sound, I forgot the firing in the Rue Saint 
Honoré, the charging into the Tuileries, the hundred and fifty 
or tw’o hundred men killed by the musketry of M. le Prince de 
Saxe, and the imprisonment of M. Gilbert on the simple asking 
of a lady of the court. But pardon, M. le Comte,” said Billot, 
interrupting himself, “ all this does not concern you, and you 
have not asked to speak with me alone to listen merely to the 
thoughts of a peasant without education — you who are at the 
same time a great lord and a wise and learned man.” 

And Billot made a movement in order to put his hand on the 
lock and enter into the king’s chamber again; but Charny 
stopped him. 

Charny had two reasons for stopping him. The first was to 


THE COUXTESS' DE Cil A R.\ y. 


336 

learn the causes of this enmity of Billot, which, in such a situa- 
tion, was not without its importance ; the second was that he 
might gain time. “ No !” said he, “ tell me all, my dear Billot ; 
you know the friendship that my poor brothers and I bore you ; 
and that which you have already told me has interested me in 
the highest degree.” 

At the words “ my poor brothers,” Billot smiled bitterly. 

“ Well, then !” he replied, “ I wûll tell you all, M. de Charn)'. 
I especially regret that ‘ your poor brothers,’ above all one — • 
M. Isidor — are not here to hear what I say.” 

Billot had pronounced the words “ above all M. Isidor,” with 
such a singular expression, that Charny understood the emotions 
of grief that the name of his dearly loved brother awoke in his 
soul; and without answering anything to Billot, who w^as evidently 
ignorant of the misfortune which had happened to this brother of 
Charny, whose presence he desired, he made him a sign to 
continue. 

Billot continued 

“ So,” said he, “ when the king was on the way to Paris, I saw 
but a father returning to the midst of his children. I marched 
with M. Gilbert, near to the royal carriage, making a rampart 
about those who were in it with my body, and crying at the very 
top of my voice, ‘ Long live the king !’ That was the first 
journey of the king, that was ! Blessings and flowers were 
showered around him, before, behind, on the road, under the 
feet of the horses, on the wheels of his carriage. On arriving 
at the Place of the Hôtel de Ville, the people perceived that he 
wore no longer the white cockade, and that he had not as yet 
the tricoloured one. They cried out, ‘ The cockade ! the 
cockade !’ I took the one that was in my hat, and gave it him; 
he thanked me, and put it on his own, with great acclamation 
on the part of the people. I was drunk with joy at seeing my 
cockade on the hat of this good king, and I cried, * Long live 
the king !’ more loudly than ever. I w'as so enthusiastic about 
this good king, that I remained in Paris. My harvest was on 
hand, and required my presence, but bah ! what did I care 
about my harvest ? I w'as sufficiently rich to lose one season, 
and if my presence was useful in any way to this good king, to 
this father of the people, to the restorer of French liberty, as, like 
ninnies, we called him at this time, it w'as better that I should 
remain at Paris than return to Pipelen. My harvest, that I had 
entrusted to the care of Catherine, was nearly lost. Catherine 


ANOT/IER ENEMY. 337 

had, as it appeared, something else to attend to besides the 
harvest. 

“ Let us not speak any more of that. Yet they said that the 
king did not so very frankly accept the revolution ; that he was 
constrained and compelled ; that it was not the tricoloured 
cockade that he would have liked to have worn in his hat, but 
the white one. Those who said this were calumniators, as was 
sufficiently well proved at the banquet of the body-guards, where 
the queen wore neither the tricoloured cockade, nor the white 
cockade, nor the national cockade, nor the French cockade, but 
simply the cockade of her brother, Joseph 11. — the Austrian 
cockade, the black cockade. 

“Ah ! I confess it, this time my doubts recommenced, but 
as M. Gilbert had said to me, ‘ Billot, it is not the king who 
has done that, it is the queen, and the queen is a woman, and 
towards women we ought to be indulgent !” — I believed it so 
well, that when they came from Paris to attack the château, 
although I discovered at the bottom of my heart that those wl o 
came to attack the château were not altogether wrong, I range d 
myself on the side of those who defended it, so that it was I wl o 
went to wake M. de Lafayette, who slept, poor dear man, which 
was a blessing, and who brought him to the castle just in time 
to save the king. 

“ Ah ! on that day I saw Madame Elizabeth press M. de 
Lafayette in her arms, I saw the queen give her hand for him to 
kiss, I heard the king call him his friend, and I said to myself, 

* Upon my word, it seems M. Gilbert was right after all. Cer- 
tainly it cannot be from fear that a king, a queen, and a royal 
princess make such demonstrations as these, and if they do not 
share the opinions of this man, of what use can he be to them 
at this time ; three personages like these would not condescend 
to lie.’ This time again I pitied the poor queen, who was only 
imprudent, and the poor king, who was only weak. I left them 
to return to Paris without me. I was engaged at Versailles — 
you know in what, M. de Charny.” 

Charny sighed. 

“ They said,” continued Billot, “ that this second voyage was 
not quite so gay as the first ; they said that instead of blessings 
there were curses ; that instead of vivats there were cries for 
death ; that instead of bouquets of flowers being thrown under 
the feet of the horses, and on to the wheels of the carriage, l!iere 
were heads stuxk on pikes ! I knew nothing of all that — I was 

22 


333 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY 


not there. I remained at Versailles. I still left the farm with- 
out a master. Bah ! I was sufficiently rich, after having lost the 
harvest of 1789, to lose that of 1790 too. But one fine morn- 
ing Pitou arrived, and told me that I was on the point of losing 
a thing which a father is never sufficiently rich to lose — this was 
my daughter !” 

Charny started. 

Billot looked kindly at Charny, and continued : 

“ It is necessary to tell you, M. le Comte, there is close by 
us, at Boursonnes, a noble family, a family of great lords, a 
family powerful and rich. This family consisted of three 
brothers. When they were children, and they came from Bour- 
sonnes to V'illers-Cotterêts, the youngest of these three brothers 
almost always did me the honour to stop at my farm ; they said 
they had never tasted such good milk as the milk of my cows, 
and never such bread as the bread of my wife, and from time to 
time they added — I believed, poor simple ninny that I was, 
that it was in return for my hospitality — that they had never seen 
such a beautiful child as my daughter Catherine. And 1 ! — 
I thanked them for drinking my milk, for eating my bread, 
and for discovering my daughter Catherine to be beautiful ! 
What would you ? I trusted in the king, who is half German 
by his mother. I could easily, then, trust to them. Also, 
when the cadet, who had quitted the country for a long time, 
and who was called Georges, was killed at Versailles at the 
door of the queen, while bravely doing his duty, during the 
night of the 5th of October, God only knows how much I was 
wounded by the blow that killed him ! Ah, M. le Comte 1 his 
brother has seen me, his eldest brother, he who did not come 
to the house — not because he was too proud, but because he 
had left the country at an earlier age even than his brother 
Georges — he has seen me on my knees before the body, shed- 
ding as many tears as it had shed drops of blood ! . . . at the 
bottom of a little green and humid court, where I had carried 
him in my arms. I believed him still alive, for, poor young 
man ! he was not mutilated, as his companions, MM. de Vari- 
court and Deshuttes, had been ; I had as much of his blood 
on my clothes as there was on yours, M. le Comte ! Oh ! it 
was the fine fellow whom I always saw going to the college 
of Villers-Cotterets on his little grey horse, with his satchel in 
his hand . . . and it is true, that in thinking of that time, if I 
could think of him, I should weep even now as you weep, 


ANOTHER ENEMY. 


335 


M. le Comte. But I think of another,” added Billot, *‘and I 
cannoc weep.” 

“Of another? and will you say then ?” asked Charny. 

“ Wait,” said Billot, “ we shall arrive at that. Pitou had come 
to Paris, and he spoke two words that proved to me that it was 
no longer my harvest that was being risked, but my child — that 
it was not my fortune that was being destroyed, but my happi- 
ness ! I left the king, then, at Paris, although it was in good 
faith, from what M. Gilbert had told me, that everything would 
go well, whether I was in Paris or not, and so I returned to tlie 
farm. I believed at first that Catherine was only in danger of 
death ; she had the brain fev^er, was delirious — what could I 
know ? I ! The state in which I found her rendered me very 
uneasy, and I became more so w^hen told by the doctor I must 
not enter her chamber until she was cured. Not enter her 
chamber ! Poor father !— I believed that I might listen at her 
door, and I listened ! Then I learned that she had nearly died, 
that she had the brain fever, that she was nearly mad, because 
her lover had gone away. A year before I had gone away too, 
and instead of becoming crazed because her father left her, she 
smiled at my departure. But my leaving her left her free to 
see her lover. Catherine recovered her health, but not her joy, 
her spirits. One month, tw'o, three, six months passed, with- 
out a single smile lighting up her countenance, on which my 
eyes were always fixed : one morning I saw her smile, and I 
trembled ; her lover was about to return, since she could smile. 
In fact, next day a shepherd, who had seen him pass, announced 
to me that he had returned that very morning ! I doubted not 
but that that very evening he would come to see me, or rather 
Catherine ; so, when evening came, I loaded my gun, and laid 
myself in ambush ” 

“ Billot, Billiot !” cried Charny, “ did you do that ?” 

“ Why not ?” said Billot. “ I put myself in ambush to kill 
the wild boar that comes to turn up my p otatoes, the wolf that 
would feed on my flocks, the fox that would devour my fowls, 
and w'hy should I not lay in ambush to kih the man who comes to 
steal my happiness — the lover who comes to dishonour my child?” 

“But arrived there, your heart failed you, did it not, Billot?” 
asked the count, quickly. 

“No,” said Billot, “ not the heart, but both eye and hand ; a 
trace of blood, however, showed me that I had not quite failed. 
Only, you understand well,” added Billot, with bitterness. “ be- 


340 


THE COUNTESS DE Cil ARN Y, 


tween a lover and a father my daughter did not hesitate. When 
I entered Catherine’s room, Catherine had disappeared.” 

“ And you have not seen her since ? ’ asked Charny. 

“No!” replied Billot, “but why should I see her? She 
knows well that if I did see her I should kill her !” 

Charny made a motion which expressed both terror and 
admiration of the powerful nature thus exhibited before him. 

“ I went back,” said Billot, “ to my agricultural labours — 
what cared I for domestic troubles, if France were happy ? Was 
not the king treading in the footsteps of the revolution ? Did 
he not participate in the festival of the federation ? Did I not 
see again the good king to whom I had given my cockade on 
the 1 6 th of July, and the life of whom I had nearly saved on 
the 6th of October ? How he would rejoice to see all France 
collected at the Champ de Mars, swearing like one man to the 
unity of the country. For a moment I forgot all, even Cathe- 
rine. No, no ! I never forgot her. He too swore. I thought 
he took the oath with a bad grace, and that he swore from the 
throne instead of the altar of the country. Bah, though, he 
swore, and that was all that was essential ; for an oath is an 
oath, without regard to locality, and honest men always keep 
them. The king then said, ‘ I will keep my oath.’ True, when 
I returned to Villers-Cotterêts, as I had no longer anything to 
occupy me, my child being gone, I heard that the king wished 
to escape through M. de Favras, but that the affair was a 
failure ; that the king wished to escape with his aunts, but in that 
he failed; that he wished to go to St. Cloud, and thence to Rouen. 
The people, however, opposed it. I heard all this, but I did not 
believe it. Had I not with my own eyes seen the king at the 
Champ de Mars reach forth his hand — had I not with my own 
ears heard him take his oath to the nation ? Could I not believe 
that a king who in the face of three hundred thousand citizens 
had taken an oath would keep it ? Was it not probable ? When, 
therefore, I went to the market of Meaux, I was amazed. I must 
tell you I had slept at the post-house with one of my friends, 
to whom I had brought a heavy load of grain. I was awaked 
while the horses were being put to the carriage to see the king, 
queen, and dauphin. I could not have been mistaken, for I 
had been used to see him in a carriage since the i6th of July, 
when I accompanied him from Versailles to Paris. Then I 
heard those gentlemen in yellow say, ‘To Chalons.’ I looked, 
and saw whom ? The man who had carried Catherine away, 


ANOTHER ENEMY. 


341 


à nobleman who played the lackey, by preceding the king’s 
carriage.” 

As he spoke, Billot looked anxiously at the count to see if 
he knew that he spoke of his brother Isidor. Charny, however, 
wiped away the sweat which stood on his brow, and was silent. 

Billot resumed : 

“ I wished to follow him ; he was already far ahead, he had a 
good horse, was armed, I was not One moment I ground my 
teeth at the idea of the king, who would escape from France, 
and the ravisher who had escaped from me. But all at once I 
caught an idea. ‘ Hold !’ said I, ‘ I also will take the oath to 
the nation, and now the king has broken his, shall I keep 
mine ? My word ! Yes, keep it ! I am only ten leagues 
from Paris. It is three o’clock in the morning ; on a good 
horse, it is a matter of two hours. I will talk this over with 
M. Bailly, who appears to me to be of the party of those 
who keep their oaths instead of those who do not keep 
them !’ This point determined, in order not to lose time, I 
begged my friend, the post-agent at Meaux — without, be it 
understood, telling him what I wanted to do — to lend me 
his uniform of the National Guard, his sabre and pistols. I 
took the best horse in his stable, and instead of setting out 
for Villers-Cotterêts, I went to Paris. I came just in time, 
for they had just heard of the flight of the king, and did not 
know whither he had gone. M. de Romœuf had been sent 
out by Lafayette towards Valenciennes. See, though, what 
chance effects. He had been arrested at the barrier, and had 
obtained permission to be sent back to the National Assembly, 
whither he came just as M. Bailly, who had been informed 
by me, described his majesty’s itinerary, with all the particu- 
lars. There was then only an order to write, and the route 
to change. The thing was done in an instant. M. de Ro- 
mœuf set out to Chalons, and I was directed I 0 accompany 
him, a mission . which, as you see, I have fulfilled. Now,” 
said Billot with a moody air, “ I have overtaken the king, 
who deceived me as a Frenchman, and I am easy; he will 
not, however, escape me now. I have now, count, to meet 
him who deceived me as a father, and 1 swear he shall not 
escape me.” 

“ Alas, dear Billot !” said Charny with a sigh, “ you are mis* 
taken now.” 

“ How so ?” 


342 


THE COLNTESS DE CIIARNY. 


“The unfortunate man of v/hom you speak, has escaped 
you.” 

“ Has he fled ?” said Billot, with an expression of intense 
rage. 

“ No,” said Charny, “he is dead !” 

“ Dead !” said Billot, trembling, and wiping away the sweat 
from his brow. 

“ He is dead. This blood which you see, and which you 
just now compared to that which covered you at Versailles, is 
his. If you doubt me, go below, and you will see his body in 
a little court-yard, like the one at Versailles in which you saw 
another who died for the same cause.” 

Billot looked at Charny, who spoke to him in the mildest 
voice, while two great tears stole down his haggard cheeks. He 
then exclaimed ; 

“ Ah ! then, that is the justice of God,” and he rushed from 
the room saying, “ Count, I believe your words, but I wish to 
see for myself if justice be done or not.” 

Charny saw him go, and, stopping a sigh, wiped away a tear. 
Then, seeing that not a moment was to be lost, he rushed to the 
queen and said : 

“ What about De Romœuf ?” 

“ He is our friend.” 

“ So much the better, for nothing is to be expected from the 
other person.” 

“ What is to be done ?” 

“ Gain time until De Bouillé comes.* 

“ But will he come ?” 

“ Yes, for I will go for him.” 

“ Oh !” said she, “ the streets are full ; you are known, and 
will not be able to pass. They will kill you. Olivier ! 
Olivier !” 

Charny did not answer, but with a smile opened the window, 
which looked into the garden, bade the queen a last adieu, and 
sprang to the ground. 

The height was fifteen feet, and the queen uttered a cry of 
terror, hiding her face in her hands. The young men ran to 
the window, and replied to the queen’s alarm by a cry of joy. 
Charny had leaped over the garden wall, and was hidden 
by it. 

It was high time, for Billot just then appeared at the door of 
the room. 


//. DE BOUILLE. 


343 


CHAPTER XXXL 

M. DE SOUILLÉ. 

Let us see what, during this time of agony, the Marquis de 
Bouillé was doing. 

At nine o’clock, that is to say, at the moment the fugitives 
approached Clermont, the marquis left Stenay with his son, and 
advanced towards Dun to be nearer the king. 

When just a quarter of a league from that city, he feared lest 
his presence should be remarked, and hurried with his com- 
panions off the road-side, establishing himself in a ditch. He 
waited there. It was the hour when, in all probability, the 
courier of the king would appear. 

In such circumstances moments seemed hours, and hours 
centuries. They heard the clock strike slowly, and with an 
impassivity which they would fain have attuned to the pulsa- 
tion of their own hearts, ten — eleven — twelve— one — two — and 
three. 

Day dawned between two and three, during which time the 
slightest sound was observable, whether any one either ap- 
proached or left them, and brought hope or despair. 

The little band began to despair. 

M. de Bouillé fancied that some grave accident had occurred, 
but being ignorant what, he resolved to regain Stenay, that, 
being in the centre of his command, he might provide against it 
as well as possible. He was only a quarter of a league distant, 
when M. de Bouillé looked back and saw the dust raised by the 
rapid approach of many horses. 

They paused and waited. 

As they came, they doubted no longer. The persons were 
Jules de Bouillé and De Raigecourt. 

The little troop advanced to meet them. 

Every mouth then asked in each troop the same question, 
and each made the same reply. 

‘‘ What had happened ?” 

" The king had been arrested at Varennes.” 


S44 


TUE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


The news was terrible. It was especially terrible, as the two 
young men who were at the Hôtel Grand Monarque, awaiting 
the king with the bags, suddenly found themselves in the midst 
cf an insurrection, and compelled to fly without any exact 
news. 

Terrible as it was, though, all hope was not lost. M. de 
Bouillé, like all old officers who rely on discipline, fancied that 
every order had been executed. 

If the king had been arrested at Varennes, the different posts 
which had been ordered to follow him had reached that city. 

These were composed of thirty of Lauzun’s hussars, com- 
manded by De Choiseul. 

The thirty dragoons of Clermont, commanded by Damas. 

The sixty hussars of Varennes, commanded by MM. de 
Bouillé and de Raigecourt, whom the young men had not been 
able to inform of their departure, but who had remained under 
the command of De Rohrig. 

True, they had not confided everything to De Rohrig, who 
was but twenty ; but he would receive orders either from De 
Choiseul, Dandoins, or Damas, and would join his men to those 
who came to aid the king. 

The king would then have with him sixty hussars and a 
hundred and sixty or eighty dragoons. 

This was force enough to repress the insurrections of a little 
town of eighteen hundred souls. 

We have seen how events had marred the strategic calcula- 
tions of M. de Bouillé. The security he felt was about to be 
attacked seriously. While De Bouillé and De Raigecourt were 
talking to the general, a horse approached at full gallop. All 
looked and recognized De Rohrig. 

The general rode rapidly towards him. He was in one of 
those happy humours when a man is glad to have some one to 
find fault with. 

“ What does this mean, sir ?’* asked the general. “ Why have 
you left your post ?” 

“ Excuse me, general !— by order of M. Damas.” 

“ Well, is Damas at Varennes with his dragoons ?” 

He is at Varennes without any force but an officer, an 
adjutant, and three or four men.” 

“ 1'he others, though ?” 

“ Would not march.” 

" And where is Dandoins, wdth his men 


A/. DE BOUILLE. 


345 


are prisoners at St. Menehould.” 

“ But Choiseul and his men are there with his trocps and 
yours ?” 

‘‘ The hussars of Choiseul have joined the people, and now 
shout, ‘Vive la Nation !’ My hussars are shut up in their 
barracks by the National Guard at Varennes.” 

“And you did not place yourself at their head, and charge 
that rabble ? you did not hurry to your king ?” 

“You forget, general, that I had no orders; that MM. de 
Bouillé and De Raigecourt were my superiors, and that I was 
utterly ignorant that the king was expected.” 

“ That is true,” said De Bouillé and De Raigecourt, thus doing 
homage to truth. 

“ The first noise I heard,” said the young subaltern, “ I w'ent 
into the street and inquired, and heard that a carriage, said to 
contain the royal family, had been arrested a quarter of an hour 
before, and that the inmates had been taken to the house of the 
procureur. There was a great crowd. The drums beat and the 
tocsin was sounded. Amid all this tumult, some one touched 
my shoulder, and I locked round. It was Damas, with a frock 
over his uniform. ‘ Are you in command of the hussars of 
Varennes ?’ said he. ‘ Yes,’ I replied. — ‘ You know me ?’ — 
‘You are Count Charles de Damas.’ — ‘Well, get on horseback 
at once, and ride to Dun — to Stenay, and find the Marquis de 
Bouillé. Say that Dandoins and his men are prisoners at St. 
Menehould, and that my dragoons have mutinied. Say that 
Choiseul’s men threaten to join the people, and that the king 
and royal family are prisoners, and that there is no hope 
but in him.’ I thought that I could say nothing to such 
an order, but that it was my duty to obey it blindly. I got on 
my horse, and rode as rapidly as I could to this place,” 

“ Did Damas say nothing more ?” 

“ Yes, that he would use every means to gain time to enable 
you, general, to reach Varennes.” 

“ Forward !” said the general ; “each, I see, has done the best 
he could. Let us do our best, also.” 

Turning to Count Louis, he said : 

“ Louis, I remain here. These gentlemen will take the 
different orders I give. The detachments at Mouza and Dun 
will march at once on Varennes,' and, taking possession of the 
passage of the Meuse, will commence the attack. Rohrig, give 
this order, and say they wilfsoon be sustained.” 


346 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


The young man rode rapidly towards Dun. 

M. de Touillé continued : 

“ Raigecourt, go to the Swiss regiment of Gastello, nhich is 
en route for Stenay. Wherever you find it, tell the state of 
affairs and urge it on. Tell the commandant he must double 
its pace.” 

Having seen the young officer ride in an opposite direction to 
that De Rohrig had taken, he turned to his son ; 

Jules,” said he, “change your horse at Stenay, and go to 
Montmédy. Tell Klenglin to march his regiment of Nassau 
infantry to Dun, and to go himself to Stenay.” 

The young man saluted and left. 

“ Louis,” said De Touillé, “ the royal Germans are at 
Stenay ?” 

“Yes, father.” 

“ They were ordered to be ready at dawn ?” 

“ I gave the order to the colonel myself.” 

“ Tring them to me. I will await them on the roadside. 
Perhaps I may have other news. The regiment is true, think 
you?” 

“ Yes, father.” 

“ It is enough, then — we will march on Varennes.” 

Count Louis set out. Ten minutes after he re-appeared. 

“ The Royal Germans follow me !” said he> 

“ You found them, then, ready to march ?” 

“ No — to my great sur])rise. The comrnandant must have 
misunderstood my order, for I found him in bed. He got up 
however, and promised to go to the barracks himself to hurry 
their departure. Fearing that you would become impatient, I 
came to account for the delay.” 

“Very well,” said the general, “ he will come ?” 

“ He said that he would follow me.” 

They waited ten minutes — a quarter of an hour — and then 
twenty minutes, but no one came. The general became im- 
patient, and looked at his son. 

“ I will go back, father,” said he. 

Forcing his horse into a gallop, he returned to the city. 
Long as the time appeared to General de Touillé, it had been 
badly used by the commandant. Only a very few men were 
ready, and the young officer, complaining bitterly, renewed the 
general’s order, and on a positive promise of the comnja idant 


M. DE BOUILLE. 


347 

that the regiment would, follow in ten minutes, he returned to 
his father. 

As he returned, he observed that the gate, which he had passed 
four times, was in charge of the National Guard. 

He waited again for five minutes — ten minutes — a quarter of 
an hour — but no one came. Nearly an hour had passed, and 
M. de Büuillé ordered his son to go the third time to Stenay, 
and not to come back without the regiment. Count Louis left 
in a perfect rage. When he reached the square, his ill-temper 
ipcreased. Scarcely fifty men were mounted. 

He took those fifty men and occupied the gate, thus assuring 
himself free ingress and egress. He then wcut to the general, 
who yet waited for him, saying he was followed by the com- 
ipandant and his soldiers. 

He thought so : but not until he was about to enter the city 
for the fourth time did he see the head of the Royal Germans. 

Under any other circumstances, M. de Bouillé would have 
had the commandant arrested by his own men, but now he fe. r d 
to offend the officers and soldiers. He therefore simply re- 
proved the colonel for his dilatoriness, and harangued the sol- 
diers. He told them for what an honourable duty they were 
intended, as not only the liberty, but the life of the king and 
royal family were at stake. He promised the officers honours, 
the soldiers rewards, and distributed a hundred louis to the 
latter. 

The discourse and peroration produced the intended effect 
An immense cry of “ Vive le roi !” was heard, and the regiment 
at full trot set out for Varennes. 

At Dun, guarding the bridge over the Meuse, was a detach- 
ment of thirty men, which M. Deslon, when he left Charny, had 
posted there. The men w^ere rallied, and they moved on. 

They had to tra\el eight leagues through a mountainous 
country, and they could not march as rapidly as^ they wished ; 
it was also necessary that the soldiers should be in a condition 
to stand a shock or a charge. 

It was, however, evident that they w^ere in a hostile country, 
for in the villages, on either side, the tocsin w’as heard, and in 
advance something like a fusillade. 

They still advanced. 

At Grange le Bois, a horseman, bareheaded, seemed to de- 
vour the road, and made frequent tokens of anxiety to meet 
them. 


34 » 


THE COUNTESS DE CÎÎARNY, 


The regiment quickened its pace. 

This person was the Count de Charny. 

“ To the king ! gentlemen ; to the king !” said he, lifting his 
hand and rising in his saddle. 

“ To the king !” cried the officers and soldiers. 

Charny took his place in the ranks, and briefly explained the 
state of affairs. The king, when the count left, was at Varennes. 

All then was not lost 

The horses are very much fatigued, but it matters not. The 
horses have had hay ; the men are heated with the hundred 
louis of M. de Bouille. 

The regiment advances like a hurricane and cries “ Long live 
the king !” 

At Cressy they meet a priest 

This priest is constitutional He sees this regiment rushing 
towards Varennes. 

“ Go ! go !” says he. “ Fortunately, however, you will come 
too late.” 

The Count de Bouille hears, and rushes on him with his sabre 
uplifted. 

“ Boy ! boy !” says his father, “ what would you do ?” 

The young count sees that he is about to kill an unarmed 
man, and that man, too, a priest The crime would be double. 
He takes his foot from the stirrup and kicks the priest 

“ You come tod late,” says the priest, as he rolls in the dust 

They continue their journey, cursing this prophet of mis- 
fortune. 

In the meantime they gradually approached the place where 
the shots were fired. M. Deslon and his seventy hussars were 
skirmishing with nearly the same number of National Guards. 
These the guard charged, dispersed them and passed through. 

There they learned from M. Deslon that the king left 
Varennes at eight in the morning. M. Bouillé took out his 
watch. It wanted five minutes of nine. 

Well, all hope is not lost. We must not attempt to go 
through the city. The streets will be barricaded We will go 
around Varennes.” 

They turn to the right — the situation of the country makes 
the left impossible; they have the river to cross, but it is 
fordable. 

They leave Varennes on the right, and ride through the fields. 


I 


M, DE BOUILLE. 349 

On the road to Clermont they will attack the escort, whatever 
be its force, and rescue the king or die. 

Two-thirds of the distance from the city, they come to the 
river. Charny dashes into it, followed by the De Bouilles. The 
officers come next, and then the troopers. The stream is hidden 
by the uniforms. In ten minutes all have crossed. The cool 
water has refreshed officers and men ; and they gallop on towards 
Clermont. 

All at once Charny, who had preceded the regiment, paused. 
He was on the brink of a masked canal, the top of the wall being 
level with the ground. This canal he had forgotten, though it 
was laid down in the map. It is several leagues long, and every- 
where presents the same difficulties. 

Unless crossed at once, it could not be crossed at all. Charny 
set the example. He first rushed into the water. The canal 
was not fordable, but the count’s horse swam towards the other 
shore. The bank, though, was steep, and the horse’s shoes could 
not take hold. 

Two or three times Charny sought to ascend, but in spite of 
all the skill of the rider, his horse, after desperate efforts, which 
were so intelligent as to seem almost human, slid back for want 
of a foothold into the water, panting and nearly drowning. 
Charny saw that what his horse, a thorough-bred animal, could 
not do, four hundred troot>horses dare not attempt 

He had failed, therefore. Fatality was too powerful. The 
king and queen were lost, and he had but one thing left to do — • 
die with them. 

He made a last effort ; but, like the others, it was useless. He, 
contrived, however, to bury his sabre half its length in the glacis. 

This sabre remained there as a point a^appuiy useless for his 
horse, but valuable to himself. 

In fact, Charny deserted his stirrup and swam towards the 
sabre — grasping it, after a few efforts, he obtained a foothold. 

He looked back and saw Bouillé and his son weeping with 
rage ; the soldiers moody and motionless, seeing, after Charny’s 
effort, how vain it would be for them to seek to cross what he 
could not. 

M. de Bouillé wrung his hands in despair. He, who had 
hitherto succeeded in every enterprise, all of whose deeds were 
crowned with success, who had acquired in the army the name 
of the “ happy Bouillé,” said sadly : 

“ Oh, gentlemen, tell me now if I am happy !” 


350 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


*‘No, general,” said. Charny, from the other bank, “but I will 
say that you have done all that man could do ; when I say so, I 
shall be believed. Adieu, general !” 

On foot across the fields, covered with mud, dripping with 
water, unarmed, for his pistols were wet, Charny took his way 
and disappeared among the trees which, like advanced sentinels, 
appeared here and there on the road. 

This road was that by which the king and royal family were 
being taken. He had only to follow to overtake them. 

Before he did so, he looked back, and on the banks of the 
accursed canal saw Bouillé and his troop, who. though unable to 
advance, would not retreat. He made them one last signal, and 
then, rapidly turning a corner, disappeared. 

He had to guide him only the immense noise proceeding from 
the cries, shouts, and menaces of ten thousand men. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE DEPARTURE. 

Let us return to the house of M. Sansse. 

Charny had scarcely touched the step, when the door of the 
room opened, and Billot entered. 

His face was dark ; his eyes, the brows of which were corru- 
gated by thought, were anxious and deep. He passed in review 
all the characters of the drama, but he could make but two 
observations : 

Charny had flown — that was evident. The count was not 
there, and Damas was closing the window. Billot looked out 
and fancied he saw Charny leap over the garden wall. 

The agreement concluded between the queen and De 
Romœuf, to which the latter had pledged himself, was that he 
would remain neuter. 

d he room behind Billot was filled with many people, armed 
with guns, scythes, or sabres, whom one gesture of the farmer 
had driven out. 


THE DEPARTURE, 


35 » 


These men, by some magnetic influence, seemed impelled to 
obey the plebeian chief, in whom they saw a patriotism equal to 
their own — or rather, a hatred not less intense. 

Billot looked around him ; as his eye met those of the armed 
men, he saw he could rely on them, even if things came to ex- 
tremities. 

“ Well !” said he to De Romœuf, “ are they decided to go ?” 

The queen cast on Billot one of those oblique glances which 
would have pulverised those to whom she addressed them, had 
she, as she wished, been al^e to infuse into them the power of 
lightning. 

Without a reply she sat down, taking hold of the arms of hei 
chair, as if she wished to keep herself steady. 

“The king requests a delay of a few moments,” said De 
Romœuf ; “no one has slept during the whole night.” 

“ M. de Romœuf,” said Billot, “ you know well enough that 
their majesties are fatigued — that they ask for delay — because 
they expect M. de Bouillé to arrive. Let, however, their 
majesties beware, for if they do not come willingly, they will 
be dragged by force.” 

‘ Villain !” said Damas, rushing towards Billot with his drawn 
sword. 

Billot folded his arms. The fact was, there was no necessity 
for his defending himself. Eight or ten men rushed from the 
first to the second room, and Damas at once had ten different 
weapons at his breast. 

The king saw that one word alone was necessary to ensure the 
death of De Choiseul, Damas, the guardsmen, and the two or 
three officers and sub-officers with him. 

“ Very w^ell !” said he, “ put horses to the carriage, and we 
will go.” 

Madame Brennier, one of the queen’s ladies, shrieked and 
fainted. The dauphin began to cry. 

“ Monsieur !” said the queen to Billot, “ you have no children, 
or you w’ould not be so cruel to a mother.” 

Billot trembled, and with a bitter smile, said ; 

“No, madame, I have none.” 

He then said to the king : 

“ There is no need for your order ; the horses are already 
harnessed.” 

“ Well, bring them up.” 

“ The carriage is at the door.** 


352 


THE COUNTESS DE CHAT N Y. 


The king went to the window and saw that Billot told the 
truth. The uproar in the street had drowned the sound of the 
wheels. 

The people saw the king. A loud cry, or rather menace, arose. 
The king grew pale. 

De Choiseul approached the queen. 

“ What does his majesty order ? Myself and my companions 
had rather die than witness what passes here.” 

“ Do you think M. de Charny is safe ?” asked the queen in a 
low, but anxious voice. 

“ Yes : I am sure of that,” said M. de Choiseul. 

** Then let us go, for heaven’s sake ! — though, both on your 
account and on ours, do not leave us.” 

The king understood the queen’s fears. 

“ M. de Choiseul and M. de Damas accompany us, but I do 
not see their horses.” 

“ True,” said De Romœuf, “ we cannot keep those gentlemen 
from following the king and queen.” 

“These gentlemen can accompany the king and queen if they 
can. Our orders relate to the king and queen, but have no re- 
lation to them.” 

“ I will not go until these gentlemen have their horses,” said 
the king, with more firmness than might have been expected 
from him. 

“ What say you to that ?” said Billot, turning to his men. 
“The king will not go until these gentlemen have their 
horses.” 

The men laughed. 

“ I will send for them,” said De Romœuf. 

Choiseul stepped in front of him, and said : 

“ M. de Romœuf, do not leave their majesties. Your mis- 
sion gives you some power over the people, and it will reflect 
credit on you if not a hair of the heads of their majesties be 
injured.” 

De Romœuf paused. Billot shrugged his shoulders. “ Very 
well, I am going,” said he. 

He advanced first. When at the door he turned. “You will 
follow me, will you not ?” 

“ Be easy,” said the men, with a burst of laughter which indi- 
cated that in case of resistance no pity was to be expected from 
them. 

They were so irritated, that they certainly would have employed 


THE DEPARTURE, 


353 

force against the royal family, had any attempt to escape been 
made. 

Billot did not have the trouble to come upstairs again. One 
of the men stood at the window, and watched what was going 
on in the street. 

“ All is ready,” said he, “ come !” 

“ Come r said his companions, with an accent which admitted 
of no discussion. 

The king went first. Then came De Choiseul with the queen. 
Then came Damas, who gave his arm to Madame Elizabeth. 
Madame de ToUrzel came next with the children, and after 
them the rest of the faithful group. 

Romœuf, as the envoy of the National Assembly, was particu- 
larly charged with the care of the royal cortège. 

It must, however, be said, that De Romœuf. himself needed 
looking after. It had been said that he had executed with great 
gentleness the orders of the Assembly, and that he had covertly, if 
not openly, favoured the escape of one of the king’s most faithful 
servants, who had left, it was said, only to summon Bouillé to 
their aid. 

The result vras that when at the door, while the conduct of 
Billot wa>s glorified by all the people, who seemed to recognise 
him as their chief. De Romoeuf heard around him on all sides 
the words “aristocrat ” and “ traitor.*' 

They got into the carriage in the same order in which they 
descended the stairway. The guardsmen resumed their places 
on the seat. 

Just as they came down M. de Valory approached the 
king. 

' “ Sire,” said he, “ my comrade and myself have come to ask 
a favour of your majesty.” 

“ What is it ?” said the king, amazed that he had yet any favour 
to dispose of. 

“ Sire, the favour, since we have no longer the honour of 
serving you as soldiers, is that we may be near you as ser- 
vants.” 

“ Servants, gentlemen ! the thing is impossible 1” said the 

. . . ... 

M. de Valory bowed. ** Sire,” said he, in the situation in 

which your majesty is, it is our opinion that such a duty would 
do honour to a prince of the blood ; for so much better rea- 
son does it do honour to poor gentlemen like ourselves.” 

23 


354 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


Well, gentlemen,” said the king, with tears in his eyes, ** r&« 
main with us and never leave us.” 

Thus these two young men, making a reality of their livery, 
and their factitious duties as couriers, resumed their places on 
the seats. 

“ Gentlemen,” said the king, ** I wish to go to Montmedy. 
Postilions, take me thither.” 

A cry, not from a single voice, but from the whole population 
was heard. It shouted : 

“To Paris !” 

After a moment’s silence. Billot, with his sabre, pointed out 
the road he wished them to follow, and shouted : 

“To Clermont 1” 

The carriage began to move 

“ I call you to witness that violence is used against me,” said 
the king. 

The unfortunate king, exhausted by this exertion, which ex- 
ceeded any one he had yet made, sank back in the carriage be- 
tween the queen and Madame Elizabeth, and the coach rolled 
on. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


THE JOURNEY OF SORROW. 

The royal family continued on to Paris, making what we may 
call the journey of sorrow. 

They advanced slowly, for the horses could not walk but as 
fast as the escort, which was in chief composed of men armed 
with scythes, forks, guns, sabres, pikes, and flails, the whole 
number being completed by an indefinite number of women and 
children. The wornen lifted their children above their heads 
to shovv them the king who was being brought back by force to 
his capital, and whom none had ever expected to see so situated. 

They reached Clermont without seeing, though the distance 
was four leagues, any diminution in the terrible escort, thfjse of 


T/IE lOUKXEY OF SOFROIV, 


355 


the men who composed it whose occupations called them home- 
ward being replaced by others in the environs, who wished to 
enjoy a s[)ectacle with which others had been satisfied. 

Among all the captives of this travelling prison, two were 
most exposed to the anger of the crowd, and more completely 
the butts of its menaces — tliese were the unfortunate guardsmen 
on the box. Every moment, and this was one way to strike at 
the royal family, their persons having been declared by the 
National Assembly invincible, at every moment bayonets were 
directed against their breasts, or some scythe, which might well 
have been that of death, was elevated above their heads, or else 
some lance glided like a serpent between the intervals to prick 
them, and was brought back quick as lightning to gratify its 
master, by showing by its point that it had not been misdirected. 

All at once they saw, with surprise, a man bare-headed, with- 
out a hat, without arms and with his dress all mud-stained, 
pierce the crowd, after having simply spoken respectfully to the 
king and queen, rush towards the box of the carriage, and 
take his place between the guardsmen. 

The queen uttered a cry of joy. She had recognised 
Charny. 

They reached St. Menehould at about two in the afternoon. 
The loss of sleep during the night of their departure, and the ex- 
citement they had gone through, had its effect on all, especially 
on the dauphin, who, at that place, had a violent fever. The 
king ordered a halt. 

Perhaps of all the cities on the road St. Menehould was the 
one most excited against the unfortunate family of prisoners. 
No attention was paid to the king’s order, which was superseded 
by one from Billot to put horses to the carriage. He was 
obeyed. 

The passage through the city was cruel. The enthusiasm ex- 
cited by the appearance of Drouet, to whom the apprehension 
of the prisoners was due, would have been a terrible lesson to 
Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette, if kings could learn any- 
thing; but in these cries they only saw a blind fury, and in 
these patriots anxious to save France they only saw rebels. 

At the entrance into St. Menehould, the crowd, like an in- 
undation, covered the whole plain, and could not cross the 
narrow street. 

It burst around the two sides of the city, following the exterior 
contour; but as they only stopped at St. Menehould long 

2^- — 2 


356 THE COUNTESS DE CH ARN Y, 

enough to change the horses, at the other side of the city it 
crowded around the carriages more orderly than even 

The king had fancied, and this idea, perhaps, alone had ex- 
cited him to adopt a wrong course, that the people of Paris 
alone were enraged, and had relied on the provinces. He had 
not only alienated the country, but it was perfectly pitiless to- 
wards him. The country people had terrified De Choiseul at 
the bridge of Someville, had imprisoned Dandoins at St. Mene- 
hould, had fired on Damas at Clermont, and had killed Isidor 
beneath the king’s eyes. All protested against his flight, even 
the priest whom the Count de Bouillé had kicked into the 
dust. 

They reached Chalons at a late hour. The carriage drove 
into the court-yard of the intendant, where preparations had 
been ordered by a courier. 

The court-yard was filled by the National Guard of the city, 
and by spectators. 

At the door where the tumultuous cortège had paused, cries 
had ceased, and a kind of murmur of compassion was heard 
when the royal family left the carriage. They found a supper 
as sumptuous as possible, and served with an elegance which 
astonished them. 

Servants were in attendance, but Charny claimed the privilege 
for himself and the guardsmen to wait at table. Such a humilia- 
tion, which to-day would seem strange, was an excuse for Charny 
not to lose sight of the king and to be prepared for any conjunc- 
ture. 

The queen understood, though she had not even looked 
towards him, nor thanked him with her hand, eyes, or 
mouth. 

Charny knew the state of feeling in every village. Now, 
Chalons was an old commercial town, with a population of 
bourgeoisie, land-holders and nobles. It was aristocratic. 

The result was, that while at the table their host, the intendant 
of the department, bowed to the queen, who, expecting nothing 
favourable, looked anxiously at him. 

“ Madame,” said he. “the young girls of Chalons wish to offer 
your majesty flowers.” 

The queen, in surprise, looked cowards Madame Elizabeth 
and the king. 

“ Flowers ?” said she. 

“ Madame,” said the intendant, “ if the hour be inconc 


THE /O UE NE y OF SOREO IV, 357 

venient and badly chosen, I will order that they be not ad- 
mitted.’* 

“ No, no ! do not say so ! Girls — flowers — let them come !” 

The intendant withdrew, and a moment after, twelve girls, 
of from fourteen to sixteen years of age, the most beautiful that 
could be found, passed the ante-chamber and stopped at the 
door. 

“ Come in ! come in, my children !” said the queen, extend- 
ing her arms to them. 

One of the young girls, the interpreter, not only of her 
companions, but of their parents and the city, had committed 
to memory an address. She was about to repeat it, but 
when the queen offered her arms, and she saw the emotion 
of the royal family, she could but weep, and utter these 
w'ords, which came from her lips in the deepest distress : 

“ Ah, your majesty, what a misfortune !” 

The queen took t»iie bouquet, and kissed the young girl. 

Charny whispered in the king’s ear : 

“ Perhaps, your majesty, this city may be turned to advan- 
tage. Perhaps all is not lost, and with your leave given, I will 
descend, and will report to you what I have seen and perhaps 
done.” 

“ Go,” said the king, “ but be prudent. Did anything happen 
to you, I should never be consoled. Two deaths in one family 
alas ! are more than enough.” 

“ Sire, my life, like the lives of my brothers, is your 
own !” 

He left ; but as he did so he wiped away a tear. 

The presence of the royal family alone retained the apparent 
calmness of this firm-hearted man, and made him seem so much 
a stoic. “ Poor Isidor !” said he. He placed his hand on his 
breast to see if he had still in his pocket the papers which De 
Choiseul had found on his brother, and which he purposed to 
read, at the first quiet moment, religiously, as if they had been 
a will. 

Behind the young girls, whom Madame Royale kissed like 
sisters, were the parents, almost all of whom were bourgeois or 
nobles. They came humbly and timidly to salute their sove- 
reign. 

In about half an hour Charny returned. 

The queen had seen him go out and return, and her eye could 
not possibly read the reasons. 


358 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


“ Well ?” asked the king, leaning towards Charny. 

“ All, sire, is well. The National Guard offers, to-morrow, to 
escort your majesty to Montmédy.” 

“ Then you have decided on something ?” 

“Yes, sire — with the principal men. To-morrow, before 
leaving, the king will ask to hear mass, and they cannot refuse 
permission. It is a festival day. The king will find his carriage 
at the door of the church, and will enter it. Vivats will be 
heard, and the king will then order the carriage to be driven to 
Montmédy.” 

“ It is well,” said Louis XVI., “ and if the state of things 
does not change, all will be as you say ; only do you and your 
companions go to sleep, for you will additionally need it to- 
morrow.” 

The reception of the young girls and their parents was not 
prolonged, and the king and royal family retired at nine 
o’clock. 

When they retired, the sentinel at the door recalled to them 
that they were yet prisoners. 

An hour afterwards, having been relieved, the sentinel asked 
leave to speak to the chief of the escort. Billot. 

He vvas supping in the street with the men who had come 
from the different villages on the route, and sought to induce 
them to remain until morning. 

The majority of these men had seen what they wished — that 
is, the king — and each wished to keep the approaching holiday 
(Fête Dieu) in his own village. Billot sought to retain them, 
for he was uneasy at the feeling displayed by the aristocratic 
city. 

They replied : “ If we do not return to-morrow, who will make 
preparations for the festivals, and place hangings before our 
houses ?” 

The sentinel surprised him in the midst of this conversation. 
They talked together in an animated manner. Billot sent for 
Drouet. The same whispered conversation was continued. Billot 
and Drouet then went together to the post-house, the master of 
which was a friend to the latter. Two horses were at once 
saddled, and ten minutes after, Billot galloped towards Rheims, 
and Drouet to Vitry-le-Francais. 

Day came, and not more than six hundred men remained of 
the escert. Those who did remain were the most furious, or 
the meanest. Tney had slept in the street on bales of straw, 


TUE JOUR.XEY OF SORROW 


359 


which had been brought to them, and \vhen morning came, 
they saw half a dozen men in uniform enter the intendancy, and 
immediately after leave in haste. 

There w^as a station of the Guards of Villeroy in Chalons, 
and about a dozen of those gentlemen w^ere in the city. They 
came for orders to Charny. 

Charny bade them put on their uniforms and be at the 
church when the king should leave it. They went to prepare 
themselves. 

As we have said, some of the peasants who the previous even- 
ing had escorted the king had not retired at night because they 
w'ere worn out ; in the morning, however, they began to reckon 
up the leagues. Some were ten, others fifteen from home. 
Two or three hundred set out, in spite of the persuasion of their 
comrades. 

Now they might rely on at least an equal number of National 
Guards devoted to the king, leaving out the officers, who were to 
be united into a kind of sacred battalion, ready to set an example 
of exposure to all dangers. 

At six in the morning, the inhabitants who were most zealous 
were out and in the court-yard of the intendancy. Charny and 
the guardsmen were with them. The king arose at seven, and 
said that he wished to attend mass. Nothing seemed to op- 
pose the accomplishment of the wish. 

The king seemed pleased ; Charny, though, shook his head. 
Though he did not know Drouet, he knew Billot. 

All seemed favourable, however. The streets were crowded, 
but it was easy to see that the population sympathised with the 
king. While the blinds of the room of the king and queen were 
closed, the crowd, not to disturb them, had moved about quietly 
and calmly, lifting up its hands to heaven, and the four or five 
hundred peasants of the escort, who would not return heme, 
were scarcely observable in its masses. 

As soon, though, as the blinds of the royal chambers were 
opened, cries of “Vive le roi!” and “Vive la reine !” were ut- 
tered so energetically, that the king and queen appeared at the 
balcony. 

The cries were then unanimous, and for a last time the 
captive sovereigns seemed condemned to disappointment. 

“ Well,” said Louis XVI. to Marie Antoinette, “ all goes 
well.” 

She lifted her eyes to heaven, but made no reply. 


36 o the countess de charny. 

Just then the ringing of the clock was heard. Charny tapped 
lightly at the door. 

“Very well,” said the king ; “I am ready.” 

Charny glanced at the king, who seemed calm, and almost 
firm. He had suffered so much, that by suffering he seemed to 
have lost his irresjlution. 

The carriage was at the door. The king and queen were 
surrounded by a crowd at least as considerable as that of the 
previous evening. Instead, however, of insults, it demanded 
no favour but a word, a glance, or permission to touch the ap- 
parel of the king, or leave to kiss the queen’s hand. 

The three officers got on the box ; the driver was ordered to 
proceed to the church, and did not hesitate. Who was to give 
a counter-order? — the chiefs were absent. Charny looked 
round, and saw neither Drouet nor Billot. They reached the 
church. 

Every moment the number of National Guards increased at 
the corner of every street ; they joined the cortège by com- 
panies. At the church-door Charny saw that he had six hun- 
dred men. 

Places had been kept for the royal family beneath a kind of 
dais, and though but eight o’clock, the priests began high mass. 
Charny saw it. He feared nothing so much as delay, which 
might be fatal to his hopes. He sent word to the priest that 
mass must last but a quarter of an hour. “ I understand,” said 
the minister, “and I shall pray God to grant his majesty a 
prosperous journey." 

The mass lasted just a quarter, and yet Charny more than 
twenty times looked at his watch. The king could not hide his 
impatience, whilst the queen leaned her head on the prie-Dieu. 
At length the priest turned and said, “//<?, missa estT 

As he left the altar, he turned and blessed the royal family, 
who bowed and answered, in response to the formula used by 
the priest, Amen.” 

They went to the door ; those who had come to hear mass 
knelt and moved their lips, though no audible sound was 
uttered. It was easy to guess the prayers that trembled on 
their mute lips. 

At the door were ten or a dozen mounted guardsmen. The 
royal escort had begun to assume colossal proportions ; yet it 
was evident that the peasants, with their rude will, with their 
arms, less mortal, perhaps, than those "of the citizens, but more 


THE /OURHEY OF SORROW. 361 

terrible in appearance — a third had guns, and the rest pikes and 
scythes — might be a dangerous enemy. 

Not without something of fear did Charny lean towards the 
king, and ask his orders, saying, to encourage him : “ Let us on, 
sire.” 

The king was decided. He looked out of the window, and 
speaking to those who surrounded him, said : 

“ Gentlemen, yesterday, at Varennes, I was seized. I ordered 
them to take me to Montmédy, yet I was dragged towards a 
revolted capital. I was then amid rebels; to-day, faithful 
subjects surround me, and I order you to escort me to 
Montmédy.” 

“ To Montmédy I” said Charny. 

“To Montmédy!” said the guardsmen ofVilleroy. 

“ To Montmédy 1” shouted the National Guards of Chalons, 
with one voice. 

A chorus of “ Vive le Roi !” was heard. 

Charny looked at the peasants, who seemed, in the absence 
of Drouet and Billot, to be commanded by the Garde Française 
who had been on guard at the king’s door. He followed, and 
made his men silently seem to obey, suffering the whole National 
Guard to pass, and forming his rude masses in the rear. 
Charny became uneasy, but, situated as he was, he could not 
prevent it, nor ask for any explanation. 

The explanation was soon given. As they advanced towards 
the gate of the city, it seemed to him that in spite of the sound 
of the wheels and the murmurs of the crowd, a dull murmur 
was heard in the distance. He placed his hand on the knee of 
the guardsman by his side, and said : 

“All is lost!” 

Just then they turned the angle of the wall. Two roads 
ended there, one of which led to Vitry-le-Français, and the 
other to Rheims. Down each of these roads, with drums beat- 
ing and colours flying, advanced large bodies of the National 
Guards. One seemed to be composed of eighteen hundred, 
and the other of twenty-five hundred or three thousand men. 
Each seemed commanded by a mounted man. These horse- 
men were Billot and Drouet. 

Charny had but to glance at them to see all. The absence 
of Billot and Drouet, hitherto inexplicable, was now plain 
enough. 

They must have learned hat was going on at Chalons, and 


363 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY» 


had set out to Rheims and Vitry-le-Francais to brin, 2 ; un the 
National Guards of those cities. Their measures had been so 
well arranged that they both arrived at once. "J'hey n il ed 
their men on the square, closing it entirely. The cortege 
paused. 

The king looked out of the window ; he saw Charny stand- 
ing, pale and with his teeth clenched, in the road. 

“ What iî5 the matter ?” asked the king. 

“ Our enemies, sire, have obtained a reinforcement, and now 
load their arms, while behind the National Guards of Chalons, 
the peasants stand already loaded.” 

“ What think yqu of that, M. de Charny?” 

“ That, sire, we are between two fires. This is no reason 
why, however, you cannot pass, if you wish to do so ; but, sire, 
whither your majesty will go, I know not.” 

“ Well,” said the king, “ let us return.” 

The young men on the seat sprang to the door, around which 
the Guards of Villeroy collected. These brave and gallant 
ofificers asked nothing better than an opportunity to enter into 
a contest with their opponents. 

The king, however, repeated more positively the order he had 
given before. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Charny, “let us return — the king wdll have 
it so,” and taking one of the horses by the bridle, he turned the 
heavy carriage round. 

The royal carriage was driven sadly enough towards Paris, 
under the surveillance of those two men who had forced it to 
resume its direction, until, when between Stenay and Dormans, 
Charny — thanks to his stature and the elevation of his seat — 
saw a carriage, drawn by four post-horses, advancing rapidly. 
He perceived at once that this carriage either brought some 
important news or some distinguished individual. 

When it had joined the advance guard of the escort, after 
the exchange of a few w’ords, the ranks of the advance guard 
opened, and the men who composed it respectfully presented 
arms. 

Three men descended from the carriage. 

Two of them were utter strangers to the royal escort and 
piisoners. 

The third had scarcely put his foot on the ground, when the 
queen whispered to the king : 

“ Latour-Maubourg — the scapegoat of Lafayette 1** 


THE lOURNEY OF SORE OU', 


563 

Shaking her head, she said : “ This presages nothing good !” 

The oldest of the three men advanced, and, opening the dooi 
of the carriage, rudely said : 

“ I am Petion, and those two gentlemen are Barnave and 
Latour-Maubourg. We are sent by the National Assembly to 
escort the king, and to prevent pojmlar anger from an»^cipating 
justice. Sit closer together, and make room for us.” 

The queen cast on the deputy from Chartres and his two 
companions one of those disdainful glances of which the 
daughter of Maria Theresa was so prodigal. 

Latour-Maubourg, a courtier of the school of Lafayette, could 
not support her eye. 

“ Their majesties,” said he, “ are much crowded, and I will 
get into the next carriage.” 

“ Go where you please,” said Petion ; “ my place is in the 
queen’s carriage, and thither I will go.” 

He got into the carriage. 

The king, queen, and Madame Elizabeth occupied the back 
seat. Petion looked at them and said : 

“ As delegate of the National Assembly, the post of honour 
belongs to me. Be pleased to sit on the other side.” 

Madame Elizabeth arose and gave her seat to Petion, casting 
a look of perfect resignation on the king and queen. 

Barnave stood outside, hesitating to enter a carriage in which 
seven persons were already crowded. 

“ Well, Barnave,” said Petion, “ will you get in ?” 

“Where shall I sit?” said Barnave, evidently much an- 
noyed. 

“ Do you wish a seat ?” said the queen, bitterly 

“ I thank you, madame, but I will find a place with those 
gentlemen on the box.” 

Madame Elizabeth drew Madame Royale close to her, and 
the queen took the dauphin on her knees. Thus room was 
made for Barnave, who sat opposite to the queen, with his 
knees close to her. 

“ Forward !” said Petion, without asking the king’s consent. 

The procession started amid loud cries of “ Long live the 
National Assembly !” 

As soon as Barnave took his place opposite the oueen, the 
king said : 

“Gentlemen, I assure vou I never intended to leave the 
kingdom 1” 


3^4 


THE COUHTESS DE CIJARNY, 


Barnave, who was seated, arose and said to the king: 

“ Monsieur, is that so? That word will preserve France/ 

He sat down. 

Then something strange passed between that man, sprung 
from the bourgeoisie of a provincial city, and that woman, de- 
scended from one of the greatest thrones of the world. 

They sought to read the hearts of each other, not as two 
political enemies who wish to search out state secrets, but like a 
man and woman who would penetrate the mysteries of love. 
Whence arose in the heart of Barnave that sentiment which the 
piercing eye of Marie Antoinette discovered, after the lapse of 
a few minutes ? 

Barnave claimed to be the successor of Mirabeau. In his 
opinion he had already occupied his place in the tribune. There 
was one thing besides, however. In the opinion of all — we 
know how — Mirabeau had seemed to enjoy the confidence of 
the king and the favours of the queen. The one and only con- 
ference M irabeau had ever enjoyed had been exaggerated into 
many, and from the known audacity of the great tribune, the 
queen had been represented as having yielded even to weakness. 
At this time it was the fashion not only to slander Marie An- 
toinette, but to also believe the slanders. 

Barnave was anxious to be the complete successor of Mira- 
beau ; that was his reason for being so anxious to be one of the 
envoys. He was appointed, and went with the assurance of a 
man who knows that if he cannot win a woman’s love, he has 
the power at least to make himself hated. 

All this the queen, with one rapid glance, at once saw. She 
also saw that Barnave paid great attention to her. Five or six 
times during the quarter of an hour, when Barnave sat in front 
of her, the young deputy looked carefully on the three men who 
were on the seat of the carriage, and from it he looked each 
time more bitterly at the queen. 

Barnave knew that one of the three, he did not know which, 
was the Count de Charny, whom public rumour represented as 
the queen’s lover. 

The queen saw this. At once she acquired great power. She 
had detected the weak point in the cuirass of her adversary : she 
had only to strike, and strike firmly. 

Monsieur,” said she, to the king, ** you heard what the 
leader of our guard said ?” “ About what, madame ?” 

“ About the Count de Charny.” 


THE JOLKAEY OE SOEEOfY, 


36s 

Barnave trembled. The queen did not fail to notice this 
tremor, for his knee touched hers. 

“ Did he not say that he was responsible for the life of the 
count ?” said the king. 

“ Yes, sire ; to the countess, too.’* 

“ Well !” said the king. 

“Well, sir, the Countess de Charny is my old friend. Do 
you not think that on my return to Paris I had best give De 
Charny a leave, so that he may visit his wife ? He has run 
great risk, and his brother has been killed for us. I think to 
ask him to continue his services would be cruel.” 

Barnave stared. 

“ You are right, madame,” said the king, “ but I doubt if the 
count will consent.” 

“ Well then, each of us will have done what is right ; we will 
have offered, and De Charny refused. We have additional 
reasons to congratulate ourselves, as we did not bring the count 
with us. I fancied him safe in Paris, when all at once I saw 
him at the carriage door.” 

“ True !” said the king, “ but it proves that the count needs 
a stimulus to induce him to do his duty.” 

Barnave was in one of those states of mind, when to contend 
with an attractive woman one would undertake an Herculean 
task with the certainty of being overcome. He asked the 
Supreme Being (in 1791 people did not ask God) to grant him 
some opportunity to attract the eyes of the royal scorner on him; 
and all at once, as if the Supreme Being had heard the prayer 
addressed him, a poor priest who had watched by the road-side 
drew near to obtain a better view, and lifting his eyes to heaven, 
said : 

“ Sire ! God bless your majesties !” 

The bearing of the old man, the prayer he pronounced, was 
replied to by the people with a roar, and before Barnave had 
aroused himself from his reverie, the old priest was thrown 
down and would have been murdered, had not the queen in 
terror said : 

“ Monsieur ! see you not what is going on ?” 

Barnave looked up, and at once saw the ocean beneath which 
the old man had disappeared, and which in tumultuous waves 
rolled around the coach. 

“ Wretches !” said he. He threw himself against the door, 
burst it open, and would have fallen, had not Madarne Elizabeth, 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


by one of those motions of the heart, which were to her so 
prompt, seized his skirts. 

“ Tigers !” said he ; “ you are not Frenchmen, or France, the 
home of the brave, has become the abode of murderers.” 

The people fell back, and the old man was saved. 

He arose, saying : 

“ You are right to save me, young man ; I will pray for you.” 

Making the sign of the cross, he withdrew. 

The people suffered him to pass, overcome by the bearing 
and glance of Barnave, who seemed the statue of command. 

When the old man had gone, the young deputy sat down 
simply and naturally, without showing any evidence that he be- 
lieved he had saved a life. 

“ Monsieur,” said the queen, “ I thank you.” 

These words awakened an emotion in all Barnave’s bod)\ 
Beyond all doubt, never since he knew Marie Antoinette, had 
she been so attractive and beautiful. 

He w’as ready to fall at her feet, but the young dauphin 
uttered a cry of pain. The child had annoyed the virtuous 
Petion by some trick, and the patriot had pulled his ear very 
sharply. 

The king grew red with rage, the queen grew pale with shame. 
She reached out her arms and took the child from Petion s 
knees, and placed him on Barnave’s. 

Marie Antoinette wished to take him herself. “ No !” said 
the dauphin, “ I am very comfortable here.” 

Barnave had changed his position, so as to enable the queen 
to take the child if she pleased, but either from coquetry or 
policy, she suffered him to remain where he was. 

Just then there passed through Barnave’s mind something 
untranslatable : he was at once proud and happy. 

The child began to play with Barnave’s ruffles, with his sash 
and the buttons of his coat as a deputy. The buttons bore an 
engraved device, and occupied the dauphin’s attention. He 
called the letters one by one, and then, uniting them, read these 
four words : “ Live free or die.” 

“ What, monsieur, does that mean ?” 

‘‘ It means, my fine fellow, that Frenchmen have sworn to 
have a master no longer. Do you understand that ?’* 

“ Petion !” said Barnave. 

“ Well,” said Petion, as naturally as possible, “ give another 
explanation of the device if you can.” 


THE fOURNRY OF SORROW, 367 

Bamave was silent The device on the night before seemed 
sublime — now it was cruel. 

The queen wiped a tear from her eyes. 

The carriage continued to roll through the crowd. They 
soon came to the city of Dormans. 

Nothing had been prepared for the royal family. It was 
forced to descend at an inn. 

Either by order of Petion, or because the inn was really full, 
meagre accommodations were found for the royal family, who 
were installed in three garrets. 

When he left the carriage, Charny, according to custom, 
wished to approach the king and queen to receive their orders. 
A glance of the queen, however, bade him keep away. I'hough 
he did not understand the motive, the count obeyed it. 

Petion had gone into the inn, and taken charge of the arrange- 
ments. He did not take the trouble to come downstairs again, 
and a waiter came to say that the rooms of the royal family were 
ready. 

Barnave was in a terrible state ; he felt the greatest anxiety to 
offer the qyeen his arm, but he feared lest she who had so 
insisted on etiquette in thpe case of Madame de Noailles would 
apply the same ideas to him. He waited therefore. 

The king got out first, leaning on the arms of the two guards- 
men, De Malden and De Valory. 

The queen got out and reached her arms for the dauphin, but 
as if the poor child felt how necessary the flattery was to his 
mother, he said : 

“No, I will remain with my friend Barnave.” 

Marie Antoinette made a sign of assent, accompanied by a 
sweet smile. Barnave suffered Madame Royale and Madame 
Elizabeth to get out, and then followed with the dauphin in his 
arms. 

The queen ascended the tortuous and difficult stairway, 
leaning on her husband’s arm. At the first story she paused, 
thinking that twenty steps were high enough. The voice of the 
waiter, however, was heard, saying : “ Higher ! higher !” 

She continued to ascend. 

The sweat of shame hung on Barnave’s brow. “ What, 
higher ?” said he. 

“ Yes,” said the waiter. “ This story contains the dining room 
and the rooms of the gentlemen of the Assembly.” 

Barnave became dizzy. Petion had taken rooms for himself 


368 


THE CO OA TESS DE CH A RA K 


and his colleague on the first story, and had sent the royal family 
to the garret. The young deputy, however, said nothing ; 
hearing, however, without doubt, the first outbreak of the queen 
when she saw the rooms of the second story had been occupied 
by Petion, while she had been sent to the third, he placed the 
dauphin on the landing. 

“ Mother,” said the young prince to his mother, “ my friend 
Barnave is going.” 

He is right,” said the queen, glancing around the room. 

A moment after, they announced to their majesties that dinner 
was served. The king came down, and saw six covers on the 
table. He asked why there were six. 

“ One,” said the waiter, “ is for the king, one for the queen, 
one for Madame Elizabeth, one for Madame Royale, one for 
the dauphin, and another for M. Petion.” 

“ Why not for MM. Barnave and de Latour-Maubourg ?” 

“ They were prepared, sir, but M. Barnave ordered them to 
be removed.” 

“ And left Petion’s ?” 

** M. Petion insisted on it.” 

At this moment the grave, more than grave — austere — face of 
the deputy of Chartres appeared at the door. 

The king acted as if he were not there, and said to the boy : 

Î sit at the table only with my family, and with chose we invite. 
We will not sit down.” 

“ I was aware,” said Petion, “ that your majesty had forgotten 
the first article of the rights of man. I thought, though, you 
would pretend to remember it.” 

The king seemed not to hear Petion, as he had not to see him, 
and bade the boy take away the plate. The servant obeyed, and 
Petion left in a perfect rage. 

“ M. de Malden,” said the king, close the door, that w'e may 
be alone.” De Malden obeyed, and Petion heard the door 
closed behind him. 

The king thus dined en famille. The two guardsmen served 
as usual. 

When the supper was over, and the king was about to rise 
from his chair, the door of the room opened, and their majesties 
were requested by Barnave to take the rooms on the first floor 
instead of their own. 

Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette looked at each other. 
They thought to assume dignity and repulse courtesy from one 


THE fOlRKEY OF SORROW. 


369 

of the delegates was the best way to punish the insolence of the 
other. That would have been the king’s wish, but the dauphin 
ran forward and cried : 

Where is my friend Barnave ?’^ 

The queen followed the daüphin, and the king the queen. 
Barnave was not there. 

Twice or thrice on the road the queen had remarked the 
profusion of flowers in the gardens. The room of the queen 
was filled with the most magnificent spring flowers, and at the 
same time the open windows brought perfumes too strong to 
escape. The mousseline curtains only prevented any in- 
discreet eye from watching the august prisoners. This was 
Barnave’s work. 

In the meantime, what had become of Charny ? 

Charny, we have seen, in obedience to a sign from the 
queen, had withdrawn, and had not re-appeared. 

Charny, whose duty bound him to the king and queen, w’as 
pleased to receive this order, the cause of which he did not ask, 
for it gave him time to think. For three days he had lived so 
rapidly, he had, so to say, lived so much for others, that he was 
not sorry to leave their griefs and think of himself. 

Charny was a noble of other days. He was, above all things, 
a man of family. He \vorshipped his brothers, the father of 
whom he really was. When George died, his grief had been 
intense ; he had, however, been able to kneel by his body in 
the dark and sombre court-yard of Versailles, and expend his 
grief in tears ; at least he had another brother, Isidor, to whom 
all his aflec' ion took wing — Isidor, who, if possible, had become 
dearer to him than ever, during the three or four months which 
preceded his departure, and since he had been the means of 
communication between himself and Andrée. 

We have sought, if not to explain, at least to describe, the 
singular mystery of the separation of certain hearts which ab- 
sence seems to animate rather than cool, and which, in separa- 
tion, find a new aliment to sustain them. The less Charny saw 
cf Andrée, the more he thought of her, and to think of Andrée 
was to love her. 

When he saw Andrée — when he was by her — he seemed to 
be by a statue of ice, which the least ray would melt, and 
which, when in the shade, feared, as a statue really of ice might, 
the approach of a rav. He was in contact with her cold icy 

24 


370 THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 

bearinçf — ^wîth her grave and veiled words, beyond which he saw 
nothing. 

As soon, however, as he left her, distance produced its ordi- 
nary effect, by extinguishing the too rare tints, and dimming 
the outlines, which were too defined. Then the cold bearing 
of Andrée became animated— her regular, measured voice be- 
came sonorous and animated — the drooping eye was uplifted, 
and shed a humid and devouring flame — a secret fire seemed to 
animate the statue, and through her alabaster bosom he saw 
the circulation of the blood and the beating of the heart. 

Ah, in these moments of absence and solitude Andrée was 
really the queen’s rival ! In the darkness of those nights Charny 
fancied that the door of his room opened, and the tapestry up- 
lifted, while, with murmuring lips, she approached his door with 
opened arms. Charny then opened his arms, and called to the 
sweet vision. Charny then sought to press the phantom to his 
heart, but, alas ! it escaped him. He embraced only a void, 
and from his dream sank back into cold and sad reality ! 

Isidor then became dearer than George had ever been. Both 
had died for that fatal woman, for a cause full of abysses. For 
the same woman, into the same abyss, Charny, too, would cer- 
tainly fall. 

Well, for two days since the death of his brother— since the 
last embrace of his blood-stained arms — since he had pressed 
his pale lips, warm with his last sigh — M. de Choiseul had given 
him the papers he had found on Isidor’s person, yet he had 
scarcely had time to think of his own sorrow. 

The signal of the queen to keep away he had received as a 
favour, and accepted with pleasure. He at once sought for 
some place aside, where, in reach of the royal family, if they 
should will, he might yet be alone with his sorrow and isolated 
with his tears. He found a garret vacant near the stairway, 
where De Malden and De Valory watched. 

There he sat alone. He took the bloody papers from his 
pocket, the only relics of his brother. With his head resting 
on his hands — with his eyes fixed on the letters in which the 
thoughts of one no more continued to live— he suffered, for a 
long time, silent tears to course down his cheeks. He sighed, 
looked up, shook his head, and opened a letter. It was from 
Catherine. 

For several months Charny had suspected a liaison between 
Isidor and the farmers daughter. When at Varennes Billot 


THE JOURNEY OF SORROW. 


371 


undertook to tell him all the details. Not until that time did 
he suffer it to assume its due importance in his mind. This 
importance was increased by reading the letter. Then he saw 
the mistress’ claim was sanctified by that of the mother, and 
Catherine expressed her love in such simple terms, that the 
whole life of the woman could not be but an expiation of the 
fault of the girl. 

He opened a second and a third, all of which spoke of the 
future — of happiness — of maternal joy — of the fears of a loving 
heart — of the same regrets, griefs, and contrition. 

All at once, amid these letters, one struck him. The wTiting 
was Andrée’s It was addressed to him. To the letter, a sheet 
of paper, folded square, was fastened by a wax seal, which bore 
Isidor’s arms. 

This letter of Andrée’s, addressed to him, and found among 
Isidor de Charny’s papers, appeared so strange that he opened 
the note before he touched the letter itself. The note had 
been written by Isidor in pencil, on some inn table while 
his horse was being saddled, beyond doubt, and was as fol- 
lows: — 

“This letter is addressed, not to me, but to my brother 
Count Olivier de Charny. It is from his wife, the countess. 
Should any misfortune befall me, the person who finds this 
paper is requested either to send it to the count, or return it to 
the countess. 

“ I received it from her with the request that, if in the enter- 
prise he was engaged in no accident should befall him, I would 
restore the letter to her. 

“ If he were wounded severely, but without danger, to beg him 
to permit his wife to join him. 

“ If he were mortally wounded, to give him the letter, if he 
could read it, or, if not, to read it myself to him, that he might 
know the secret it contained. 

“ If this, letter be sent to my brother, as doubtless it will be, 
he will act as his sense of propriety directs. 

“ I bequeath to his care Catherine Billot, who is living with 
my child in the Ville d’Avray. 

“ Isidor de Charny.” 

At first the count seemed entirely absorbed by the letter. His 
tears, checked for a moment, began to flow again, until at last 

24 — 2 


371 THE COUNTESS DE CHARNŸ. ^ 

he looked at the letter of his wife. He looked long at it — kissed 
and placed it to his heart, as if it could thus communicate the 
secret it contained. He then read, twice or thrice, his brother’s 
letter. 

He shook his head, and said in a low tone : 

“ Have I the right to read it ? I will, however, ask her to 
permit me to do so.” 

As if to encourage himself in this resolution, he said, two or 
three times, “ No, 1 will not.” 

He did not ; but day found him seated at the table devouring 
with his eyes that letter, which was quite humid, so often had 
he pressed it to his lips. 

All at once, amid the noise which always precedes a depar- 
ture, he heard the voice of De Malden calling for the Count de 
Charny. 

“ Here I am,” said the count. 

Placing the letter of poor Isidor in his pocket, he kissed the 
sealed one, again placed it on his heart, and descended rapidly. 
He met Barnave on the stairway, who asked after the queen, 
and who was looking for De Valory to obtain orders in relation 
to the departure. 

It was easy to see that Barnave had not slept any more than 
Charny had. 

As they entered the carriage, the king and queen saw that they 
had around them only the population of the city come to see 
them set out, and an escort of cavalry. 

For this they were indebted to Barnave. He knew that on the 
previous day, the queen, forced to travel slowly, had suffered with 
heat, with dust, and been annoyed by the menaces uttered against 
the guardsmen and the faithful subjects who came to pay their 
respects to her. He pretended to have received news of an 
invasion, that De Bouille had entered France with fifty thou- 
sand Austrians, and that every man with a gun, pike, scythe, or 
other weapon should march against him. The whole population 
heard this and retraced its steps. 

In France, at that time, foreigners were really hated so in- 
tensely, lhat all this animosity was transferred to the queen 
merely because she was a stranger. 

Marie Antoinette guessed whence came this new kindness ; 
we use the word kindness, and there is no exaggeration in doing 
so. She glanced her thanks at Barnave. 

Just as she was about to take her seat, she looked around foi 


THE JO V R KEY OF SORROW, 


373 


Charny. He was already in his seat ; but instead of sitting as 
he had done between the guard:men, he insisted on yielding 
to De Malden the less dangerous place he had previously oc- 
cupied. Charny longed for a wound to permit him to open the 
letter of Andrée. He did not see that the queen sought to catch 
his eye. 

The queen sighed deeply. Barnave heard her. Anxious to 
know why, he paused on the steps. 

“ Madame,” said he, “ I observed yesterday that you were 
crowded in this berlin. One less will accommodate you. If you 
wish, madame, I will get into the next carriage with Latour- 
Maubourg, or accompany you on horseback.” 

When Barnave made this offer, he w^ould have given half of 
his life, and it was not long, to have it refused. It was. 

“No,” said the queen, “ remain where you are.” 

The dauphin just then reached out his little hand to the 
young deputy. 

“ My friend, Barnave ! Barnave 1 You must not go.” 

Barnave, perfectly delighted, resumed his seat. When in the 
carriage, the dauphin went from the queen’s knees to his. 

As the queen put him down she kissed his cheeks. The humid 
touch of her lips yet remained on the velvet cheek of the child. 
Barnave looked at them as Tantalus did at the fruits which hung 
before him. 

“ Madame,” said he to the queen, “ wdll your majesty deign 
to permit me to kiss the cheek of the prince, who, guided by 
the instinct of childhood, deigns to call me his friend ?” 

The queen smiled, and nodded an assent. The lips of Bar- 
nave were then so ardently imprinted on the trace which the lips 
of the queen had left that the child uttered a cry. 

The queen did not lose one item of all this. 

Thanks to Barnave, the carriage now travelled tw'O leagues 
an hour. 

They paused at Château-Thierry for dinner. 

The house at which they stopped was near the river, in a 
chnrming position, and belonged to a wealthy female dealer in 
wood, who on the previous night had sent one of her clerks, on 
horseback, to offer hospitality to the delegates of the National 
Assembly, and to the king and queen. 

Her offer was accepted. 

The moment the carriage stopped, a crowd of eager servants 
pointed out to the august prisoners an altogether different re* 


374 


THE COUATESS DE CHARNY, \ 


ception from that they experienced at Dormans. The king, 
queen, Madame Royale and Madame Elizabeth, were each 
conducted to different rooms, as also were the dauphin and 
Madame de Tourzel, and every arrangement was made for all 
to be able to pay the most minute attention to their toilet. 

Since she left Paris, the queen had met with nothing like this. 
The most delicate habits of the women were caressed by this 
aristocratic attention, and Marie Antoinette, who appreciated 
such cares, asked to be permitted to thank her hostess. 

About four o’clock in the afternoon they reached Meaux, 
and stopped in front of an episcopal palace, which was occu- 
pied by a constitutional bishop who had taken the oaths. This 
they saw later from the manner in which he received the royal 
family. 

At first the queen was surprised at the sombre appearance of 
the building she was about to enter. Nowhere could a princely 
or religious palace be found, from its melancholy appearance, 
more calculated to afford a shelter for the misery that sought 
for a refuge in it. 

She glanced across this lugubrious place, and finding it at- 
tuned to her own feelings, looked around lor some arm to lean 
on while she visited the palace. 

Barnave was there alone. 

The queen smiled. 

“ Give me your arm, monsieur, and deign to be my guide 
through yon old palace.” 

Barnave approached rapidly, and gave his aim to the queen, 
with mingled respect and anxiety. 

She hurried Barnave through the rooms of the palace. One 
vdio looked after her floating form might imagine that she fled, 
for she looked neither to the right nor to the left. Almost 
panting, she at last paused in the chamber of the great preacher, 
and saw, to her surprise, a female picture before her. 

She looked up mechanically, and read these words, “Madame 
Henriette.” 

Barnave felt her tremble, though he did not know why. 

“ Does your majesty suffer ?” asked he. 

“ No !” said the queen ; “ but that picture, Madame Henri- 
eett.” 

Barnave saw what passed in the poor woman’s heart. 

“Yes,” said he; “poor Madame Henriette of England, not 
the widow of the unfortunate Charles I., but the wife of the 


THE JOURS E Y OF SORROW, 


375 


careless Duke of Orleans. Not she who nearly died of cold in 
the Louvre, but the one who died at Saint Cloud and sent 
Bossuet this picture.” 

After a moment of hesitation, he said : 

“ I wish it were the portrait of the other.’* 

“ And why so ?” asked the queen. 

“ Because certain mouths alone can give certain advice, and 
those mouths are those which death has closed.” 

“ Can you not tell me, sir, what the mouth of the widow of 
Charles I. would advise ?” asked the queen. 

“ If your majesty order, I will try.” 

« Do so.” 

“ ‘ Ah ! sister,’ that mouth would say, * see you not the re- 
semblance between our fates ? I come from France, you from 
Austria. To the English, I was a stranger, as you are to France ; 
I might have given my husband gcod advice ; but I kept silence 
or advised him wrongly ; instead of uniting the people, I urged 
him to war, and besought him to march on London with the. 
Irish Protestants ; I not only kept up a correspondence with the 
enemy of England, but went twice into France to bring foreign 
soldiers into the kingdom. At last ’ ” 

Barnave paused. 

“ Go on,” said the queen, with a dark brow and compressed 
''p- 

“ Why should I continue, madame ?” said he, shaking his 
head sadly. You know the end of that bloody story as well 
as I do. Yes ; I will continue, and tell you what this portrait 
of Madame Henriette says to me, and you shall tell me if I am 
mistaken. ‘The Scotch betrayed their king; the king was 
seized as he was about to cross to Paris. A tailor took him, a 
butcher conducted him to prison, and a publican presided at 
the court of justice, and that nothing might be wanting, a dis- 
guised hangman struck off the head of the victim before the 
judge who reviewed the whole trial.’ This is what the portrait 
of Madame Henriette says to me ; am I right ? My God, 1 
know that as well as any one ; I know more, I know that 
nothing is wanting in the resemblance. We have our seller of 
beer of the Faubourgs, only instead of calling him Cromvvell, 
we call him Sauterre; we have our butcher, instead of Hamilton, 
he is called what . . . Legendre, I believe ; instead of calling 
him Pridge, they call him . . . that I do not know ! The man 
is so insignificant that I do not even know his name, nor do 


THE COUNIESS DE CIJARNY. 


376 

you either, I am sure ; but ask him, he will tell you— the man 
I mean who conducted our escort — a peasant, a villein. This, 
this is what Madame Henriette tells me. And what is your 
answer ?” 

‘‘ I answer, ‘ Poor dear princess, it is not advice you give 
me, it is history, a history completed. Now, now, let me hear 
your advice.’ ” 

“ Oh ! this advice, madame,” said Barnave, “ if you will only 
not refuse to follow, it shall be given by the living as well as the 
dead.” 

“ Living or dead, let those speak who ought to speak. Who 
says if the advice is good we shall refuse to follow it ?” 

“ Eh, mon Dieu ! living or dead have but one advice to give.” 

«What ?” 

« Make the people love you !” 

« And it is an easy thing to make the people love you !” 

« Ah ! madame, this people are more yours than mine ; as a 
proof, when you first came to France they adored you.” 

« Oh ! monsieur, you are speaking of that very fragile thing— 
popularity !” 

« Madame, madame !” said Barnave, « if I, unknown, leaving 
an obscure sphere, have obtained this popularity, how much 
easier must it have been for you to preserve it, how much easier 
to reconquer it ! But no !” continued Barnave, growing aiv- 
mated, “no ; to what have you trusted your cause, the cause of 
monarchy, the most holy, the most beautiful of causes ? What 
voice, what arm, has defended it ? Never was seen such 
ignorance of the times, never such complete forgetfulness of the 
genius of France. I ! I who have solicited the mission of going 
before you on your return, I whom you see, I who speak to you, 
how many times, mon Dieu ! how many times have I been on 
the point of opening myself to you, to devote myself to ” 

« Silence,” said the queen, « some one comes ; we will talk of 
all this some other time, M. Barnave. I am ready to see you, 
to hear you, and follow your counsels.” 

« Ah ! madame ! madame !” cried Barnave, transported. 

« Silence !” repeated the queen. 

'‘Your majesty is served,” said the domestic whose step they 
had heard, appearing on the threshold. 

They passed into the salle à manger. The king had arrived 
there by another door. He had conversed with Petion during 
the time Barnave had been speaking to the queen, and he seemed 


THE [OUR ME Y OF SORROW, 


377 


in better spirits. The two guards waited, claiming, as always, 
the privilege of attending on their majesties. Charny, the most 
distant of all, was in the embrasure of a window'. 

The king looked round, and making good use of the time he 
was alone with his family, the two guards and the count, 
“ Gentlemen,” said he to the latter, “ after supper I wish to speak 
with you. You will follow me, if you please, to my apartment.” 

The three officers bow’ed. 

The dinner commenced as usual. But though dressed, this 
time, in the palace of one of the first bishops of the kingdom, 
the table was as badly served this evening at Meaux as it had 
been well served in the morning at the Château Thierry. 

The king, as usual, had a good appetite, and eat a good dinner, 
in spite of the poorness of the fare. The queen only took two fresh 
eggs. The dauphin, who had been ill since the evening, had asked 
for some strawberries. . Since the evening, all those to whom he 
had addressed himself had answered “There are none !” or 
“We cannot find any !” 

And yet, on the road, he had seen the children of the peasants 
eating quantities which they had gathered in the woods. 

This desire, which the queen was unable to satisfy, had made 
her sad, so that wffien the child, refusing everything that was 
offered to him, asked again for strawberries, the powerless 
mother’s eyes filled with tears. 

But at this moment the door opened, and Barnave appeared 
with a plate of fresh strawberries in his hand. 

“The queen will excuse me,” said he, “if I enter thus, and 
the king will also be so good as to pardon me, I hope, but 
many times during the journey I have heard M. le Dauphin ask 
for strawberries. I found this plateful on the bishop’s table, 
and brought them for him.” 

“ Thanks, my dear Barnave,” said the young dauphin. 

“M. Barnave,” said the king, “our dinner is not very tempting, 
but if you will take some, you will give both the queen and 
nxyself great pleasure.” 

“ Sire,” said Barnave, “ the invitation of the king is an order ; 
where does your majesty wish me to sit ?” 

“ Between the queen and the dauphin,” said the king. 

Barnave sat himself down, mad at the same time with love 
and pride. 

Charny looked on this scene without the least jealousy rising 


37 » 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


in his heart ; looking at the poor butterfly that was about to 
burn his wings at the royal light, he said : 

Another one lost ! it is a pity I he is worth more than the 
rest.” 

And then, reverting to his incessant thought : 

“ This letter ! this letter !” murmured he, “ what can there be 
in this letter ?” 

After supper the three officers, according to the orders they 
had received, ascended to the chamber of the king. 

When the young man had entered : “ M. de Charny,” said the 
king, “will you shut the door, so that we may not be disturbed ; 
I have something of the utmost importance to communicate to 
you. Here, gentlemen, at Dormans, M. Petion has proposed 
to me to let you escape in disguise; but the queen and I are 
both opposed to it, fearing lest it be a trap, and that they would 
only separate you from us in order to assassinate you, or deliver 
you up to some military commission which would condemn you 
to be shot. We, the queen and I, have taken upon ourselves 
to reject this proposal, but to day M. Petion has returned to the 
charge, pledging his honour as a deputy, and I thought it best 
to let you know what he fears and what he proposes. 

“ Here are the words of M. Petion : * Sire, there is not, at 
the time of your re-entrance into Paris, any security for the three 
officers who accompany you. Neither I, M. Barnave, nor M. de 
Latour-Maubourg, can answer for their safety, even at the risk 
of our lives.’ ” 

Charny looked at his two companions ; a smile of contempt 
passed over their lips. 

“ Afterwards,” said the king, “ hear what M. Petion proposes. 
He proposes to procure for you three dreeses as National 
Guards, to cause the doors to be left open for you to-night, and 
give each of you an opportunity to fly.’ 

Charny consulted his companions again, but the same smile 
was the response. 

“ Sire,” said he, addressing the king, “ our days have been 
consecrated to your majesties ; you have accepted them, and it 
will be easier for us to die for you than to be separated ; do us 
the honour, then, to treat us to-morrow as you did yesterday, 
neither more nor less. Of all your court, of all your army, of all 
your guards, you still have three faithful hearts left ; do not 
take away the only glory of their ambition, that of being faithful 
to the end.” 


THE JOURNEY OF SORROW, 


379 


It is well, gentlemen,” said the queen ; “ we agree ; only 
you understand from this moment that all is common with us; 
you are no longer servants, but friends. I will not ask you to 
give your names — I know them — but,’’ she drew her tablets 
from her pocket, “ but give me those of your fathers, your 
mothers, your brothers, and your sisters; it may happen that 
we may have the misfortune to lose you without sinking 
ourselves ; then it shall be my duty to tell their misfor- 
tune to these cherished beings, and to offer, at the same time, 
to relieve it as much as lies in my power. Allons, M. de 
Malden, allons, M. de Valory, say boldly, in case of death, and 
we are all so near the reality that we ought not to shudder at 
the word, who are the relations, who are the friends, whom you 
w'ould recommend to my care ?” 

M. de Malden mentioned his mother, an elderly infirm dame, 

■ dwelling on a small property in the neighbourhood of Blois ; M. 
de Valory recommended his sister, a young orphan, who was a 
pupil in a convent at Soissons. 

Certainly the hearts of these two men were strong and full of 
courage, and yet, while the queen w’as writing down the addresses 
of Madame de Malden and Mademoiselle de Valory, neither 
could restrain his tears. 

The queen, also, was obliged to stop writing, and draw out 
her handkerchief and dry her eyes. 

Then, when she had written the addresses down, she turned 
to Charny. 

“ Alas, M. le Comte !” said she, “ I know that you have no 
one to recommend to my care; your father, your mother are 
dead, and your tw’o brothers.” 

The queen’s voice failed her. 

My tw^o brothers have had the good fortune to die for your 
majesty, madame,” added Charny, “ but the last one who died 
left a poor child, whom he confided to me by a testament I 
found upon him. This young girl he took from her own family 
w hence she can expect no pardon. As long as I live neither she, 
nor her child, shall want for anything ; but your majesty haa 
said, with an admirable courage, that wt are all confronting 
death, and if death should strike me, the poor girl and hei 
child w^ould be without resources. Madame, deign to put 
on your tablets the name of an unfortunate peasant, and if I 
have, like my tw'o brothers, the happiness to die for my august 
master and noble mistress, bestow vour gratitude on Catherine 


330 


THE COUNTESS DE CHAR NY, 


Billot and her child. They will both be found in the little village 
of Ville d’Avray.’’ 

Without doubt, the picture of Charny dying in his turn, as 
had already died his two brothers, was a spectacle too terrible 
for the imagination of Marie Antoinette, for she turned back 
with a feeble cry, let her tablets fall, and went tottering towards 
a chair. 

The two guards started towards her, while Charny, taking 
up the royal tablets, wrote on them the name and address of 
Catherine Billot, and placed them on the chimney-piece. 

The queen made an effort to recover herself. 

The young men, then, knowing the necessity there was for 
her being alone after such emotion, drew back in order to leave 
the room. 

But she, stretching her hand towards them : 

“Gentlemen,” said she, “you will not leave me without kiss- 
ing my hand.” 

The two guards advanced in the same order that they had 
given their names and addresses. M. de Malden first, then M. 
de Valory. Charny approached her last. 

The hand of the queen trembled as she awaited the kiss for 
which certainly she had offered the two others. 

Next day, at the very moment of departure, M. de Latour- 
Maubourg and Barnave, ignorant, without doubt, of what had 
passed the previous evening betwixt the young men and the 
king, renewed their arguments in favour of dressing these two 
young men as National Guards; but they refused, saying that 
their place was on the seat of his majesty’s carriage, and that 
they could put on no other dress than that which they had 
dressed themselves in at his command. 

Then Barnave wished that a plank, passing from the right to 
the left of the seat of the carriage, should be attached to that 
seat, so that two grenadiers could sit on this plank and guarantee, 
so far as in them lay, the safety of these two obstinate servants 
of the king. 

At ten in the morning they quitted Meaux ; they were 
about to enter Paris, from which they had been absent five 
days. 

Five days I what a great deal had passed in these five 
days. 

They were scarcely a league from Meaux, when the cortège 
tssumed an aspect more terriljle that it had ever had before. All 


THE JOURNEY OF SORROW, 


3S1 

the population of the neighbourhood of Paris joined it ; Bar- 
nave had wished to make the postilions go at a trot, but the 
National Guard of Claye barred the road, presenting the points 
of their bayonets. 

Soon the crowd was such that the carriages could hardly 
move. The insolent curiosity of the people tollowed the king 
and queen even into the corners of the carriage, where they 
had retreated. Men mounted up the steps, and thrust their 
heads into the carriage : some hung on in front, and others 
behind. 

It was a miracle that Charny and his companions were not 
killed tw^enty times. The two grenadiers could not parry all 
the blow’s ; they begged, they prayed, they commanded even, 
in the name of the Assembly; but their voices were lost in the 
midst of the tumult and noise. 

An advance-guard of more than two thousand men preceded 
the carriage ; more than four thousand followed it. At its 
sides the crowd increased at every instant. 

The carriage drove along under a burning sun, and through 
a cloud of dust, of which each particle seemed of glass. Two 
or three times the queen turned round and cried. 

'Fhey reached Villette. The sidewalks were covered so 
thickly that it was impossible to move on them. The doors, 
the windows, and roofs of houses were crowded with spec- 
tators. 

The trees bent down under the weight of their living fruit. 
Every one kept his hat on. 

Since the previous evening, the following notice had been 
placed on the walls of Paris : 

If any one salutes the king he will be beaten. 

“ If any one insults him he shall be hanged I 

All this was so terrible that the commissioners did not dare 
to pass through the Faubourg Saint-Martin. They resolved 
then to enter by the Champs Elysées, and the cortège, going 
round Paris, passed along the outer Boulevards. 

This would make the punishment three hours longer, and 
this punishment was so insupportable that the queen begged 
they would take the shortest way, even if it were the most 
dangerous. 

Twice had she attempted to draw down the blinds, and twice 
had the groanings of the crowd made her raise them. 

On arriving at the barrier, the king and queen saw an im- 


THE COUHTESS DE CHARNY. 


352 

menss mass of men, stretching as far as the eye could reach, 
silent, gloomy, threatening, with their hats on their heads. What 
was more dreadful, certainly more painful, than all this was a 
double rank of National Guards, with arms reversed in sign of 
grief, at the gates of the Tuileries. 

It was a day of grief, great grief, mourning for a monarchy of 
seven centuries. 

They took an hour to go from the barrier to the Place 
Louis XV. The horses bent under their burdens — each carried 
a grenadier. 

On debouching into the Place Louis XV., the king perceived 
that they had bandaged the eyes of his ancestor. 

“ What do you mean by that T the king asked Barnave. 

“ I do not know, sire,” ans^'ered the latter. 

“ I know,” said Petion ; “ they wish to express the blindness 
of monarchy.” 

During the progress, in spite of the escort, the commissioners, 
the placards forbidding the king being insulted under pain of 
being hanged, the people three or four times broke through the 
line of grenadiers — a feeble barrier to this element, to ’which 
God had forgotten to say, as to the sea, “ Thus far and no 
farther shalt thou go !” 

Once the crowd pressed so that they broke one of the windows 
of the carriage. 

“ Why are you breaking the glass ?” cried ten furious voices. 

“ Look, gentlemen 1” said the queen, “ look at the state my 
poor children are in !” and wiping the perspiration from their 
faces, “ we choke,” said she. 

“ Bah !” replied a voice, “ that is nothing ; we shall choke 
you in another way ! be quiet !” ^ 

And a stone broke the window into shivers. 

Yet in the midst of this terrible spectacle, some episodes 
would have consoled the king and queen if their minds had 
been as impressible for what was good for them as for that 
which was evil. 

In spite of the placard which forbade the king being saluted, 
M. Guilhenny, member of the Assembly, uncovered when the 
king passed, and as they wished to make him put on his hat 
again, he said, “ Who dare reprove what I have done ?” 

At the entrance of the bridge twenty deputies were assembled 
to protect the king and royal family. Then came Lafiyette 
and his staff. 


THE /O URNE Y OF SORROIY, 


383 


^ " Oh ! M. de Lafayette !” cried the queen, as soon as she saw 
him, “ save the guards !” This cry was not useless, for danger 
was approaching, and the peril was great. 

During this time, a scene in which there is some poetry was 
passing at the doors of the château. 

Five or six ladies of the queen, who, after the flight of their 
mistress, had quitted the Tuileries, believing that the queen 
herself had left them lor ever, wished to re-enter to receive her 
majesty. 

“ Away !” cried the sentinels, presenting the points of their 
bayonets at them. “ Slaves of the Austrians I” growled some, 
showing their poniards. 

Then, crossing before the bayonets of the soldiers, and braving 
the threats of the women, the sister of Madame Campan made 
some steps forward. 

“ Listen !” said she, “ I have been attached to the service of , 
the queen since I was fifteen. I served her while she was power- 
ful : she is unhappy now — should I abandon her?” 

“ She is right !” cried the people ; soldiers ! let her pass !” 

And at this order, given by a master whom none could 
resist, the ranks opened, and the ladies passed. A moment 
afterwards the queen could see them waving their handkerchiefs 
from the windows. 

And still the carriage went, pushing before it a crowd of 
people and a cloud of dust, even as a vessel drives through the 
waves of the ocean and a cloud of foam. 

At last the carriage stopped. They had arrived at the steps 
of the great terrace. 

“ Oh, gentlemen !” said the queen again, but this time ad- 
dressing herself to Petion and Barnave, “the guards, the 
guards 1” 

“ Have you no one, madame, to recommend more particu- 
larly to me than these gentlemen ?” said Barnave. 

The queen looked at him fiercely with her clear eyes. 

“No one !” said she. 

And she allowed the king and the children to go out first. 

The ten minutes which passed next — we do not except even 
those in going to the scaffold — were certainly the most unhappy 
of her life. 

She was convinced, not that she should be assassinated — to 
die was nothing to her — but that she should either be delivered 
up to the people as a laughing-stock, or that she should be shut 


384 THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY 

lip in a prison, the door of which would only open through an 
infamous action. 

As she put her foot on the steps of the carriage, protected 
by the arch of iron that was formed above her head by the 
order of Barnave, the guns and bayonets of the National Guard 
dazzled her so that she believed she was about to fall back- 
wards. 

But as her eyes were about to close, in that last look of 
agony when one sees all, she thought she saw immediately in 
front of her that man, that terrible man, who at the château of 
Taverney had in so mysterious a w’ay raised for her the veil 
that shrouded the future — that man that she had only seen once 
since, in returning from Versailles on the 6th of October — that 
man, finally, who only appeared but to foretell great and sudden 
catastrophes, or at the very hour when these great catastrophes 
were accomplished. 

After she was perfectly certain that she was not mistaken, she 
closed her eyes, which as yet had hesitated, strong in opposing 
realities, but inert and powerless before this sinister vision, and 
uttered a loud shriek and fell down. 

It seemed to her as if the earth had gone from under her 
feet, and then the crowd, the trees, the burning sky, the im- 
movable château, seemed to turn with her; vigorous arms, 
however, seized her, and she felt herself borne off amid the 
cries, growlings, and noise. At this moment she believed she 
heard the voice of the guards, who cried out, trying to turn 
the anger of the people upon them, hoping thus to turn it 
aside from its true inclination. For an instant she reopened 
her eyes and saw the unhappy occupants of the seat of the 
carriage, Charny pale and beautiful as ever, struggling alone 
against ten men, the lightning of the martyr in his eyes, the 
smile of disdain upon his lips. The looks of Charny were fixed 
upon the man who had raised her up from the midst of the 
crowd ; she recognised with terror the mysterious being of 
Taverney and of Sevres. 

“ You, you !” she cried, trying at the same time to repulse 
him with her rigid hands. 

“ Yes, 1 1” he murmured in her ear, “ I have need of thee 
yet to push monarchy down into its last abyss, and so I save 
thee !” 

This time it was more than she really could support; she 
uttered a piercing cry and fainted. 


THE CHALICE, 


During this time the crowd was trying to cut MM. de Charny, 
do Malden and de Valory in pieces, and to carry Drouet and 
Billot in triumph. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE CHALICE. 

When the queen revived, she found herself in her bed-chamber 
in the palace of the Tuileries. Madame de Misere, and Madame 
Campan, her two ladies in waiting, were at her side. Her first 
expressed wish was to see the dauphin. 

He was in his chamber and in bed, watched by Madame de 
Tourzel, his governess. 

This assurance did not suffice the queen ; she arose immedi- 
ately, and all in disorder as she was, ran to the apartment of 
her son, where she remained a long time with her ejes fixed 
upon him, leaning on the post of the bedstead, and looking at 
him through her tears. 

The terrible words that that mysterious being had said to her, 
in his low but sweet voice, murmured incessantly through her 
ear : “ I have need of thee to push monarchy down into its 
last abyss, and so I save thee.” 

Was it then true ? Was it really she who was pushing mon- 
archy towards the abyss ? 

It seemed that it must be so, since her enemies watched 
over her class, leaving her to work out its destruction, which 
she was accomplishing better than themselves. 

At last she shook her head and returned to her own apart- 
ments. 

Barnave had been twice to bring her news. 

Since their arrival at the barrier, Charny and his companions 
had formed a plan. This plan had for its object the taking 
away, in relieving themselves from them, a part of the dangers, 
too, that threatened the king and queen. It \vas arranged, con* 

25 


TUE COUNTESS DÊ CIIARNY. 


386 

sequently, that as soon as the carriage stopped, one should cast 
himself to the right, the other to the left, and the one seated 
in the middle should go forward ; dividing in this fashion the 
crowd of assassins, and making them follow in three opposite 
directions ; perhaps, they thought, there might thus be a way 
left clear for the king and queen to reach their apartments. 

We have said that the carriage stopped near the great terrace 
of the castle. The haste of the murderers was so great, that in 
throwing themselves before the carriage two of them were dread- 
fully wounded. For an instant longer the tv/o grenadiers 
stationed on the seat were able to guard the three young officers, 
but being themselves soon torn to the ground, they left them to 
their own resources. 

This was the rhoment that they selected. All three darted 
off, but not so rapidly, nevertheless, as not to overturn five or 
six men who had mounted on the wheels and steps in order to 
tear them down from their seats. Then, as they had imagined, 
the anger of the people was divided in three directions. 

Wnen scarcely on the ground, M. de Malden found himself 
un 1er the axes of two sappers. The two axes were raised, and 
only sought lor means to strike him. He made a violent and 
rapid movement, by which he escaped from the two men who 
held him by the collar, and in a second he stood alone. 

Then, crossing his arms, “ Strike !” said he. 

One of the axes remained raised. The courage of the victim 
paralysed the assassin. The other fell, thirsting for blood, but 
in falling it encountered a musket, which turned it aside, and 
the point only reached M. de Malden’s neck, making a slight 
wound. 

Then the multitude opened, and he passed along with head 
hung down ; but after a few paces he was received by a group 
of officers, who, wishing to save him, conducted him towards 
the National Guards, who had made the way safe for the royal 
family from the carriage to the château At this moment 
General Lafayette perceived him, and pushing his horse to- 
wards him, he seized him by the collar and drew him towards 
his stirrups, so as in some measure to cover him with his popu- 
larity ; but M. de Malden recognised him, and cried : 

Leave me, sir ; give all your attention to the royal familyj 
ind leave me to the mob.” 

M. de Lafayette left him, perceiving a man who was seizing 
the queen, and rushed to her aid. 


THE CHALICE. 


3S7 

M. Qe Malden had then been tossed about in every direc- 
tion, attacked by some, defended by others, and at length had 
reached, covered with bruises, wounds, and blood, the gate of 
the château ; there an officer, seeing him about to yield, 
seized him by the collar, and drawing him towards him, cried : 

“It would be a pity that such a miserable being should die 
so pleasant a death ; it will be necessary to invent some punish- 
ment for a brigand of this kind. Deliver him up to me, then ; 
I’ll take him in charge.” 

And continuing to insult M. de Malden, saying to him : 
“ Come, rascal ! come here ! You’ll have to deal with me now !” 
he had got him by this time drawn to a darker entrance into the 
palace, where he said to him : “ Save yourself, sir, and pardon 
the stratagem I was obliged to use to get you out of the hands 
of these wretched fellows.” 

M. de Maiden had glided up the staircases of the chateau, 
and had disappeared. 

Something of the same kind had happened to M. de Valory; 
he had received two severe wounds upon his head. But at the 
very moment when twenty bayonets, twenty sabres, were raised 
to kill him, Petion had darted forward, and thrusting the as- 
sassins back with all his strength, “ In the name of the National 
Assembly,” said he, “ I declare you unworthy of the name cf 
Frenchmen — if you do not disperse at once, and if you do not 
deliver up this man ! I am Petion !” 

And Petion, who, under a rude exterior, concealed great 
honesty of purpose, a courageous and loyal heart, presented, as 
he said these words, such a glorious appearance in the eyes of 
the murderers, that they had drawn back and abandoned M. 
de Valory. He sustained him, for, stunned by the blows he 
had received, M. de Valory could hardly support himself ; con- 
ducted him to the National Guards, and placed him under the 
care of the aide-de-camp, Mathieu Dumas, who answered for 
his safety, and assisted him to the château. 

At this moment Petion heard the voice of Barnave. Barnave 
was calling him to his assistance, finding he could not protect 
Charny. The count, seized by twenty men, cast down, dragged 
in the dust, had got up again, snatched a bayonet from a gun, 
and assailed the crowd around him. But he would have fallen 
in this unequal contest if Barnave and then Petion had not run 
to his assistance. 

Half-an-hour had scarcely elapsed since the queen had been 

25 — 2 


388 


THE COUNTESS DE CH A EN Y, 


put in possession of these details, whon the valet de chambre 
announced M. le Comte de Charny, and the latter appeared in 
the entrance of the doorway, lit up by the reflection of .4.e 
golden rays of the setting sun. 

He, like the queen, had employed the time which had elapsed 
since his entrance into the château in removing the traces of his 
long journey, and the terrible conflict in which he had been 
engaged. He had put on his old uniform — that of a captain of 
a frigate. 

Never had he been so elegant, calm and handsome, and the 
queen could scarcely believe that this was the same man who 
but one short hour before had barely escaped being cut to 
pieces by the people. 

“Oh, monsieur i ’ cried the queen, “ it is necessary to tell you 
how uneasy I have been about you, and how I have sent in 
every direction to obtain some news of you.” 

“ Yes, madame,” said Charny, bowing, “ but believe that I 
did not retire before being assured, by some of your ladies, that 
you yourself were safe and well.” 

“ They say you owe your life to M. Petion and M. Barnave, 
and do I owe to the last this new obligation ?” 

“It is true, madame, and I owe double thanks to M. Barnave; 
for not wishing to leave me when I had reached my chamber, 
he has had the goodness to inform me that you were anxious 
about me on the way hither.” 

“ About you, count? and in what way?” 

“ But in exposing to the king the inquietudes you chose to 
think your ancient friend would experience at my absence — I 
am far from believing, like you, madame, in the earnestness of 

tliese inquietudes — but yet ” he stopped, for it seemed 

to him that the queen, already very pale, had become paler 
still. 

“ But — yet repeated the queen. 

^ “ Yet,” continued Charny, “ without accepting, in every 
'sense, the permission which your majesty had the intention to 
offer to me, I believed that, assured as I am of the safety of the 
king and yourself, madame, and that of the august children, it 
is right I should bear the news of my safety to Madame la 
Comtesse de Charny in person.” 

The queen placed her left hand on her heart, as if she wished 
to assure herself that her heart had not ceased to beat, and in 
a voice nearly choked by the dryness of her throat, said ; 


THE CHALICE, 389 

But it is just, monsieur, that I am only surprised that you 
have waited so long before fulfilling this duty.” 

“ The queen forgets that I pledged my word not to see the 
countess without her permission.” 

“ And you have come to ask for this permission ?” 

“ Yes, madame,” said Charny, “ and beg your majesty to give 
it me.” 

“ Without which, in the anxiety you are in to see Madame de 
Chamy, you will even go, will you not ?” 

“ I believe that the queen is unjust to me,” said Charny. “At 
the time I left Paris I thought I was leaving it for a long time, if 
not for ever. During the journey, I did all that it was in my 
power to do for the success of the journey. It is not my fault, 
your majesty must remember, if I have not, like my brother, 
left my life at Varennes, been cut to pieces on the road, or 
in the gardens cf the Tuileries. If I had had the joy of 
conducting your majesty beyond the frontier, or the nonour 
of dying for you, I should have exiled myself, or have died, 
without seeing the countess. But I repeat to your majesty, 
on my return to Paris — I cannot put on the woman who bears 
my name — and you know how she bears it, madame — the 
mark of indifference implied in not giving her some intelligence 
of myself ; above all, my brother is no longer there to take 
my place. For the rest, M. Barnave has deceived himself, 
or it was your majesty’s opinion the day before yesterday.” 

“You love this woman, then, sir,” said the queen, “about 
whom you make such a complaint so coolly?” 

“ Madame,” said Charny, “ it will soon be six years since you 
yourself — at a moment when Ï did not dream of such a thing, 
because for me there existed but one woman on earth, and this 
woman God had placed in so high a position that I could not 
obtain her— it is six years since you gave me in marriage Made- 
moiselle de Taverney, since you made her my wife. During 
these six years my hand has not twice touched hers ; without 
necessity, I have not addressed her ten times — and ten times 
we have not certainly interchanged a look. My life has been 
occupied, filled — filled with another love, occupied with a 
thousand cares, a thousand labours. I have lived at the court, 
traversed the world — blindfold on my part — with the thread 
that the king has been willing to confide to me, and I have 
neither counted the days, months, nor years ; the time has 
passed so much the more rapidly, owing to my being so much 


3Ç0 


THE COUNTESS DE CHAKNY 


occupied with all these affections, cares and intrigues I have 
just mentioned. But it has not been thus with the Countess 
de Charny, madame, since, having had, without doubt, the 
misfortune of displeasing you, she has lived alone, isolated, lost 
in her pavilion of the Rue Coq Héron. This solitude, this 
isolation, this abandonment, she has accepted without com- 
plaint, because, with heart free from love, she feels not the want 
of the same affections as other w'omen do ; but what she wall 
not accept, perhaps, without complaint, will be my forgetfulness 
of duties and attentions so very simple.” 

“ Eh ! mon Dieu ! monsieur,” cried the queen, you are 
pretty well preoccupied with what Madame de Charny will 
think or not think of you, according as she sees you or not. 
Before taking all this trouble, it would be as well, perhaps, to 
ascertain whether she thought of you at the time of your depar- 
ture, or whether she dreams of you in the hour of your return.” 

“ I do not know whether the countess dreams of the hour of 
my return or not ; but I am sure she thought anxiously of the 
hour of my departure.” 

“ You saw her then before you left?” 

“ I had the honour to tell your majesty that 1 have never 
seen the Countess de Charny since I pledged my w'ord to the 
queen not to see her.” 

“ Then she has written to you ?” 

Charny kept silent. 

“ Let us see ?” cried Marie Antoinette, ** she has written to 
you ; say so, if she has ?” 

'‘She sent a letter for me to my brother Isidor.” 

“ And you have read this letter ? What did slie say, what 
could she write ? Ah ! she has spoken against me ? Well, in 
this letter she says ? Speak, then ! you see I am impatient !” 

“ I cannot repeat to your majesty what she has said to me in 
this letter, I have not read it.” 

“ You have torn it up ?” cried the queen joyouslv. “ You 
threw it into the fire without reading it ? Charny, Charny 1 if 
you have done so, you are the most loyal of men, and I am 
wrong, and have lost nothing !” 

And the queen stretched out both her arms towards Charny, 
to call him to her. But Charny remained in his place. 

“ I have not torn it, I have not thrown it in the fire.” 

“But then,” said the queen, falling again into her chair. 
“ how is it that you have not read it ?” 


THE CHALICE, 


3ÇI 

“ The letter was not to have been given to me by my orother 
unless I was mortally wounded. Alas, it was not I who was 
about to die — it was he. When he was dead, they brought me 
his papers : amongst these papers was the letter of the countess, 
with this note. Take it, madame.” 

And Charny presented to the queen the billet written by 
Isidor and annexed to the letter. 

During this scene which we have just related, night had 
come on. 

“ Lights !” said she, “ at once !” 

The valet de chambre went out: there w^as a moment of silence, 
when nothing w'as heard but the loud breathing of the queen, 
and the beatings of her heart 

The valet de chambre entered with two candelabras, which 
he placed on the chimney-piece. 

The queen would not even give him time to retire, and 
while he withdrew and shut the door, she approachea the 
chimney-piece with the billet in her hand. But she looked at 
the paper twice without seeing anything. 

“ Oh !” murmured she, “ it is not paper — it is flame.” And 
passing her hand over her eyes, as if to restore to them the 
faculty of seeing, wh'ch they seemed to have lost, “ M> God! 
my God !” said she, stamping her foot with impatience. 

At length, by stre’^gth of will her hand ceased to tremble, and 
her eyes began to see. She read in a rough voice, which had 
nothing in comtnon with her usual voice : 

“ ‘ This letter is addressed not to me, but to my brother, 
Comte Olivier de Charny ; it is written by his wife, the Countess 
de Charny.’ ” 

The queen stopped some seconds, and then continued : 

“ ‘ If anything should happen to me, those into whose hands 
this paper may fall are begged to hand it to the Comte de 
Charny or send it to the countess.’ ” 

The queen stopped a second time, shook her head and con- 
tinued : 

“‘Add to this the following recommendation.’ Ah! the 
recommendation,” murmured the queen ; and she passed her 
hand again over her eyes. 

“ ‘ If the enterprise in which the count is engaged should suc- 
ceed without any accident, return the letter to the countess. 

The voice of the queen panted more and more as she read. 

She continued : “ ‘ If he should be grievously wounded, but 


TUE COUNTESS DE CH ARN Y. 


3 )’ 

without danger of death, beg him to accord the favour to his 
wife of answering it’ Oh ! it is clear !” lisped the queen. 
Then, in a voice nearly unintelligible : “ * Lastly, if he should 
be so severely wounded that death is certain, give him this 
letter, and, if he cannot read it himself, read it for him, that 
before he expires he may know the secret that it contains.’ 
Well ! do you deny it now ?” cried Marie Antoinette, gazing 
at the count with a vexed look. 

“ What ?” 

“ My God ! That she loves you ?” 

“Who? I? — the countess love me? What do you say, 
madame ?” cried Charny, in his turn. 

“ Oh ! unhappy one that I am, I speak the truth I” 

“The countess love me ? I ? Impossible !” 

“ And why ? I love you well — 1 !” 

“ But if the countess has loved me for six years, the countess 
would have told me — would have let me perceive it.” 

The moment had come for poor Marie Antoinette in which 
she suffered so much, that she felt the need of driving away, 
like a poniard, the sufferings from her heart 

“ No !” cried she, “ she could not let you perceive anything. 
She would not say anything to you; but if she had said nothing 
— let you perceive nothing — it was because she knew well she 
could not be as your wife.” 

“ The Countess de Charny could not be as my wife?” repeated 
Olivier. 

“ It was,” said the queen, intoxicated more and more with 
her own grief, “ it was that she knew well that there was be- 
tween you a secret that would destroy your love.” 

“ A secret that would destroy our love ?” 

“ It was that she knew well, at the very moment she spoke, 
you would despise her.” 

“ I despise the countess ?” 

“In proportion as we despise the young girl who is a woman 
without spouse, a mother without husband.” 

It was Charny’s turn to become pale, and to seek a shelter 
behind the nearest chair. 

“ Oh, madame, madame !” said he, “ you have said either too 
much or too little ; and I have the right to ask an explanation 
of you.” 

“ An explanation, monsieur, of me— of the queen— an ex- 
planation ?” 


7HE CHALICE, 


393 


**Yes, madame,” said Charny, ‘^and I demand it” 

At this moment the door opened. 

Who wants me ?” asked the queen, impatiently. 

“ Your majesty,” replied the valet-de-chambre, “said that you 
always wished to see Dr. Gilbert” 

“ Well ?” 

“ Doctor Gilbert has the honour to present his humble re- 
spects to your majesty.” 

“ Doctor Gilbert !” said the queen ; “ are you sure it is Doctor 
Gilbert ?” 

“ Yes, madame.” 

“ Oh ! let him come in ! let him come in, then !” said the 
queen. 

Then, turning towards Charny : 

“ You wish for an explanation about Madame de Charny,” 
said she, raising her voice, “ look ! ask Dr. Gilbert for the ex- 
planation ; he is the best person to give it you.” 

During this time Gilbert had entered. He had heard the 
words Marie Antoinette had just spoken, and he remained im- 
movable at the threshold of the door. 

As for the queen, throwing back to Charny the note of his 
brother, she made some steps towards her dressing-room ; but 
more rapid than she was, the count barred the passage, and 
seized her by the robe. 

“ Pardon, madame,” said he, “but this explanation — it ought 
to take place before you.” 

“ Monsieur,” said Marie Antoinette, with set teeth, “ you for- 
get, I believe, that I am the queen !” 

You are an ungrateful friend who calumniates her friend ; 
you are a jealous woman who insults another woman, the wife 
of a man who, for the last three days, has risked his life 
twenty times for you ; the wife of the Count de Charny. It 
is before you, who have calumniated her, who have insulted 
her, that justice shall be done her. Sit down, then, there, and 
listen !” 

“ Well ! let it be so !” said the queen ; “ M. Gilbert,” con- 
tinued she, making a bad attempt to smile, “ you see what mon- 
sieur wishes ?” 

“ M. Gilbert,” said Charny, in a tone full of courtesy and dig- 
nity, “ you hear what the queen orders ?” • 

Gilbert stepped forwards, and looked sadly at Marie Antoi- 
nette. 


394 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


‘‘Oh, madame, madame !” murmured he. 

Then, turning towards Charny : 

“ M. le Comte, what I have to tell you is the shame of a man 
— the glory of a woman. An unhappy man, a peasant, loved 
Mademoiselle de Taverney. One day he found her — she had 
fainted — and without respect for her youth, her beauty, her in- 
nocence, the miserable being violated her ; and it was then that 
the young girl was a woman without spouse — mother without 
husband. Mademoiselle de Taverney is an angel 1 Madame 
de Charny is a martyr !” 

Charny wiped away the perspiration that trickled down his 
face. 

“ Thanks, M. Gilbert !” said he. 

Then, turning to the queen : 

“ Madame !” said he, “ I was ignorant that Mademoiselle de 
Taverney had been so unfortunate — I was ^norant that Madame 
de Charny was so much to be respected — or I beg you will be- 
lieve me, I should not have been six years without falling on 
my knees before her, and adoring her as she deserves to be 
adored !” 

And bowing before the stupefied queen, he left, without the 
unhappy woman daring to make a movement to detain him. He 
heard only her cry of grief as she saw the door shut between 
him and her. 

Then she understood that it was upon this door that the hand 
of the demon of jealousv would come and write, as upon that 
of hell, these terrible words ; ^ 


^ Lasciate ogn* Speranza f* 


ANDREE. 


395 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

ANDRÉE. 

Let us tell what became of the Countess de Charny, while the 
scene we have described took place between the count and the 
queen — that scene which crushed so painfully a long series of 
griefs. 

In the first place, to us who know the secrets of her heart, 
it is easy to see what she suffered on account of the absence of 
Isidor. 

She trembled, because the great project would be either an 
escape ora failure. If it succeeded, she knew well enough the 
devotion of the count to his sovereigns, to be aware that, when 
they were in exile, he would never quit them. If it failed, she 
knew Charny’s courage well enough to be sure that he would 
struggle to the last moment, as long as hope remained, and even 
when it was gone, against any imaginable obstacles. 

As soon as Isidor had bade her adieu, the countess had her 
eye constantly open to seize every light, her ear constantly at- 
tentive to perceive every noise. 

On the next day, she, with the rest of the people of Paris, 
learned that the king and royal family had left the city 
during the night. No accident had made the departure remaik- 
able. As there was a flight, Charny knew of it, and had there- 
fore left her. 

She uttered a profound sigh — knelt, and prayed for a happy 
retura 

Then, for two days, all Paris remained mute and silent, and 
without an echo. On the morning of the third day, an echo 
pervaded all Paris. The king had been arrested at Varennes. 

M. de Bouillé, it was said, had followed and attacked the 
royal escoit, and after the contest had retired, leaving tlie king 
in the hands of the people. 

Charny had participated in this contest, she knew. He 
would be the last to retire, if he had not remained on the field 
of battle. 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


39 ^ 

. Then it was said that one of the three guardsmen who had 
accompanied the king had been killed. 

Then the name transpired ; but none knew if it were Count 
Isidor or Olivier de Charny. 

For the two days during which this question was undecided 
she suffered inexpressible anguish. 

At last the return of the king and royal family was announced 
for Saturday the 26th. 

Calculating time and space by the ordinary measure, the 
king should be in Paris before noon. If he came by the most 
direct route, he would enter Paris through the Faubourg St 
Martin. 

At eleven o’clock, Madame de Charny, in a costume of the 
greatest simplicity, and with a veil over her face, went to the 
barrier. 

She waited until three. 

At that hour, the first waves of the crowd passing before her 
announced that the king was going around Paris, and would 
enter the city through the Champs Elysées. 

She had to pass through the whole city, and pass through it 
on foot None dared to drive through the compact crowd 
which filled the streets. Never since the taking of the Bastile 
had the Boulevard been so encumbered. 

Andrée did not hesitate, but crossing the Champs Elysées, 
was one of the first to reach the barrier. 

She waited there three hours ! — three mortal hours ! 

At last the cortège appeared : we have described how and in 
what order it marched. 

Andrée saw the carriage pass. She uttered a cry of joy, for 
she saw Charny on the seat. A cry which seemed an echo to 
her own, had it not been aery of grief, replied.' 

Andrée hurried towards the side whence came the cry. A 
young girl was struggling in the arms of three or four persons 
who sought to assist her. She seemed the prey of violent 
despair. * 

Perhaps Andrée would have bestowed more attention to the 
youni? girl if she had not heard muttered around her all 
possible imprecations against the three men who sat on the 
royal coach. 

The wrath of the people would be expended on them. They 
would be the rams to replace the great royal sacrifice; they 


ANDREE, 


397 

would be torn to pieces as soon as the carriage approached and 
halted. 

Charny was one of the three men. 

A^ndrée resolved to find out what she should do in order to 
enter the garden of the Tuileries. She had to pass round the 
whole crowd to go to the bank of the river — that is to say, 
along the Quai de la Conference, and, if possible, reach that of 
the Tuileries. 

After many attempts, and running the risk of being crushed 
twenty times, she passed the grate. Such a crowd, however, 
pressed round the place where the carriage was to stop, that she 
could not reach the front rank. 

Andrée thought that frcm the terrace above the water she 
would be able to «ee everything, though the distance would be 
too great to enable her to cistinguish anything certainly and 
surely. It mattered iiol * she would see and hear as well as 
she could \ and that was better than not seeing or hearing 
at all. 

She then ascended the terrace on the bank of the river. She 
could see the seat of the coach, Charny and the two guards- 
men. 

Had she but known that at that very moment Charny pressed 
her letter to his bosom, and his thought offered her the last sigh 
which he would ever exhale I 

At last the carriage paused amid cries, bowlings, and cla- 
mours. Almost immediately there was a loud cry around the 
carriage, a great motion and tumult. Bayonets, pikes, and 
sabres were lifted : one might almost think a harvest of steel 
was rising after a storm. '1 he three men were thrown from the 
seat, and disappeared as if they had been cast into a gulf. 
There was such an excitement in this multitude that its outer 
ranks were pushed back and broke against the wall sustaining 
the terrace. 

Andrée was wrapped in a veil of anguish ; she saw and heard 
nothing. She cast herself panting, with outstretched arms and 
inarticulate sounds, amid the terrible concert composed of 
maledictions, cries, and blasphemies. 

She could no longer render an account of what passed ; the 
earth turned, the heavens became red, a murmui like that of 
the sea sounded in her ears. She then fell half fainting, know- 
ing that she lived only by her sufferings. 

An impression of freshness recalled her to consciousness. A 


398 


THE COUNTESS DE C HA EN Y, 


woman applied a handkerchief dipped in the water of the Seine 
to her brow, while another applied a bottle of Seine water to 
her lips. 

She remembered that the second woman was the one whom, 
like herself, she had seen dying at the barrier, and by the un- 
known bonds of grief seemed attached to her. 

When she returned to herself, the first word was, “ Are they 
dead 

Compassion is quick-sighted. Those who surrounded Andrée 
at once understood that she referred to the three men, the lives 
of whom had been so cruelly menaced. 

“ No ! ” said they, “ they are saved I” 

“All three?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Oh Lord, be praised ! where are they ?’* 

“They are at the palace.” 

At the palace ? Thanks.” 

And lifting herself up, shaking her head with a wild eye, the 
young woman left by the gate on the bank to re-enter by the 
wicket of the Louvre. 

She fancied that on that side the crowd would be less compact, 
and she was right. The Rue des Orties was almost empty. 
She crossed the corner of the Place du Carousel, and hurried to 
the gate. The porter knew the countess, for he had seen her go 
in and out during the two or three days after the return from 
Versailles. He had then seen her leave to return no more, on 
the day she had taken away Sebastian. 

The keeper of the gate promised to obtain information foi 
her. Passing through the interior corridors, he soon reached 
the centre of the castle. The three officers were saved, and 
M. de Charny had gone safely to his room. A quarter of an 
hour after, he left his room in the uniform of a naval officer, and 
had gone to the queen, where he still was. * 

Andrée gave her purse to the man who had given her such 
news, and panting and overcome, asked for a glass of water. 

Charny was saved ! 

She thanked the good man, and returned to Rue Coq Héron. 

When there, she sank, not on a chair or a sofa, but on her 
prie-Dieu. 

She did not pray with her mouth. There are moments when 
gratitude to God is so great that words fail us — then the arms, 
eyes, body and heart all rush to heavea. 


ANDREE. 


399 


She was plunged in that happy ecstasy when she heard the 
door open ; she returned slowly, not understanding this earthly 
noise which came to seek her in the depth of her reverie. 

Her femme de chambre was standing lost in obscurity. Be- 
side the woman stood a shadow of undecided form, but to which 
her instinct at once gave a name. 

“ M. le Comte de Charny,” said the femme de chambre. 

Andrée wished to look up, but her strength failed her, and she 
sank again on the cushion, and, half turning round, rested her 
arm on the front of the prie-Dieu. 

Andrée made a sign which the woman understood. She got 
out of the doorway to suffer Charny to pass, and closed the 
door. 

Charny and the countess w'ere alone. 

“ They told me that you had come home, madame ; am 1 
indiscreet in having followed you so closely ?” 

No,” said she, with a trembling voice, “no, sir, you are 
\velcome. I was so uneasy, that I went out to ascertain what 
was going on.” 

“ You went out long since ?” 

“ In the morning. I went first to the Barrière St. Martin, and 

to the Champs Elysées; there I saw — I saw ”she hesitated — 

“ I saw the king and royal family ; I saw you, and I was for the 
time comforted ; I was afraid that you would be in danger in 
5-our descent from the carriage. I then went into the garden of 
the Tuileries. Oh ! I thought I should die.” 

“Yes,” said Charny, “the crowd was very great ; you must 
have been almost crushed and stifled.” 

“ No,” said Andrée, shaking her head, “it was not that ! At 
last I inquired and learned that you were saved ; I returned here, 
and you see, I was thanking God on my knees.” 

“As you are on your knees, madame, I beg you will not rise 
until you have prayed God for my poor brother.” 

“ Isidor ! Ah !” said Andrée, “ then it was him, poor young 
man.” 

She let her head fall on her two hands. 

Charny advanced, and looked with an expression of deep sad- 
ness and melancholy at this chaste and tearful creature. His 
heart was also filled with commiseration, mildness, and pity. 
He felt, also, something like a repressed desire to explain him- 
self. Had not the queen said, or rather suffered to escape her, 
that she loved him ? 


400 


THE COUNTESS DE CTI AK NY, 


Her prayer being finished, the countess turned around. “ He 
is dead ?” said she. 

“ Dead ; yes, madame, like poor Georges, for the same cause, 
and discharging the same duty.” 

“ And amid the great grief caused by a brother’s death, you 
had yet time to think of me ?” said Andrée, in a voice so feeble 
that her words were scarcely intelligible. 

“ Madame,” said he, “ did you not charge my brother with a 
commission for me — with a letter?” 

“ Monsieur !” said Andrée, shuddering. 

“ After the death of poor Isidor, his papers were given me, 
and among them your letter.” 

“ You read it,” said Andrée, hiding her face in her hands ; 
“ah!” 

‘‘ Madame, I was to know its contents only in case I was 
wounded, and you see I am safe and sound.” 

“ Then the letter ?” 

“ Is here untouched, as you gave it to Isidor.** 

“ Oh,” murmured Andrée, taking the letter, “ you have acted 
well, or rather cruelly.” 

Charny opened his arms, and took the hand of Andrée with 
both of his. Andrée sought to withdraw hers. Charny insisted, 
and uttered a sigh almost of terror. Powerless, however, herself, 
she left her damp humid hands in Charny’s. 

Then, embarrassed, not knowing how to extricate herself from 
the glance of Charny, which was fixed on her as she knelt at the 
prie-Dieu : 

“ Yes, I understand,” said she, “ and you have come to give 
me the letter.” 

“ For that purpose, madame, and also for another \ I have, 
countess, to beseech you to pardon me.” 

Andrée’s heart beat quickly ; it was the first time he had pre- 
ceded the word countess by madame. 

He pronounced the whole phrase with an intonation of infi- 
nite sweetness. 

Pardon from me, count ? — why ? for what ?” 

“ For the way I have acted towards you for six years.’* 

Andreé looked at him with great surprise. “Did I ever 
complain, monsieur?” she said. 

“No, madame; because you are an angel.” 

Andrée’s eyes became suffused, in spite of herself, and the 
tears quiv'ered on her lids. 






ANDREE. 


401 


“ You weep, Andrée ?” said Charny. 

“ Ah !” said Andre'e, bursting into tears, “ forgive me, sir, but 
I am not used to hear you speak thus.” 

She threw herself on a sofa, and hid her face. After a mo- 
ment, she withdrew her hands, shook her head, and said, 

Really, I am mad 1” 

She paused ; while her hands were before her face, Charny 
had knelt before her. 

“ You at my feet? you on your knees to me ?'’ said she. 

“ Did 1 not say, Andrée, that I had come to beg your par- 
don.’* 

“ On your knees ! — at my feet !” said she, as if she could not 
believe the impressions received from her own senses. 

“ Andrée,” said Charny, “ you withdrew your hands.” 

He reached out his hand again to the young woman. She. 
shrank back, however with an expression of terror. “ What 
means this ?” said she. 

Andrée placed her hand on her heart, and uttered a cry. 
Then, rising as if a spring had been beneath her feet, and clasp- 
ing her temples in her hands, she said : “ He loves me ! — he 
loves me !” repeated she ; “it is impossible !” 

“ Say, Andrée, that it is impossible for you to love me, but 
not for me to worship you.” 

She looked down on Charny, as if to be. sure that he spoke 
the truth ; the great black eyes of the count told much more 
that his words had said. Andrée, who might have doubted his 
words, could not doubt his looks. 

“ Ah,” murmured she, “ my God I my God ! as ever any 
one so unhappy as I am ?” 

“ Andrée,” said Charny, “ tell me that you love me, or if not, 
say at least that you do not hate me.” 

“ I ! hate you !” said Andrée. 

And then her calm limpid eyes suffered a double light to 
escape them. 

“ Oh, sir, you would not be unjust, to take for hatred the 
feeling you inspire me with.” 

“ If it be not hatred, Andrée, if it be not love, what is it ?” 

“It is not love, for you will not suffer me to love you. Did 
5 ^ou not hear me say just now that I was the most unfortunate 
being alive? And why is it not permitted you to love me? 
Did you not hear me say, just now, that I was the most unfor- 
tunate woman on earth ?” 


26 


402 


THE COUNTESS DE C HA EN Y. 


“ And why may you not love me, Andrée, when I love you 
with all my heart ?” 

“Ah ! I would not have you do that, because I dare not say 
why,” said Andrée, wringing her hands. 

“ But,” said Charny, speaking in a yet kinder tone, “ if what 
you will not and cannot, another person has told me ?” 

Andrée placed her hands on Charny ’s shoulder. 

“ Ah !” said she, frightened. 

** What if I knew?” said Charny. 

“My God!” 

“ And if, on account of that very misfortune, I thought you 
more interesting — if that very misfortune made you more at- 
tractive, and induced me to tell you that I loved you ?” 

“ If so, sir, you would be the noblest and most interesting of 
men !” 

“ I love you, Andrée,” said Charny. “ I love you ! I love 
you !” * 

“ Oh !” said Andrée, looking to heaven, “ I did not know 
there could be such joy in the world 1” 

“ But tell me, Andrée, that you love me !” said Charny. 

“No ! no ! I dare not ! but read this letter, which was to be 
given you only at your death !” 

She gave him the letter he had returned to her. 

Andrée covered her face with her hands, while Charny broke 
the seal of the letter, read the first lines, uttered a cry, and tlien 
clasped Andrée to his heart. 

“ Since the day you saw me, for six years ; how, oh ! blessed 
creature ! can I atone for the sufferings I have caused 
you ?” 

“ My God !” said Andrée, bending like a reed beneath the 
weight of such happiness, “ if this be a dream, let me never 
awake, or die when I do !” 

And now let us forget the happy, to return to those who 
suffer, who struggle, or who hate ; perhaps their evil fate will 
forget them, as we have forgotten them. 


THE GEOUND-FLüOR OF THE TUHERIES, 




CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE GROUND-FLOOR OF THE TUILERIES 

Behind a door of a dark room opening on a dark corridor, on 
the ground-floor of the Tuileries, a woman stood with a key in 
her hand, apparently fearful lest her step should awaken an 
echo. 

Did we not know this woman, it would be difficult for us to 
recognise her, for besides the obscurity which even in broad 
daylight pervades a corridor, it is now night, and, either in- 
tentionally or not, the wick of the only lamp has almost disap- 
peared, and seems ready to become extinct. 

The second room of the suite only is lighted, and the woman 
leans against the door nearest the corridor. 

Who is that woman ? Marie Antoinette. 

Whom does she wait for? Barnave. 

Proud child of Maria Theresa, who would have told you, on 
the day of your arrival in France, when you were crowned queen 
of France, that a time would come when, hidden behind the 
door of your chambermaid, you would await with anxiety the 
coming of a little Grenoble lawyer, after having caused Mira- 
beau to wait so long, and deigned to receive him only once. 

Let us not, however, be mistaken, for merely from motives of 
policy did you receive Barnave; your suspended respiration, 
your nervous motions, your trembling hand cannot be referred 
to the heart. Pride alone is concerned. 

We say pride, for in spite of the countless persecutions to 
which the king and queen have been subjected during their re- 
turn, it is clear that life is sweet, and that the question is summed 
up in these two words : “ Will the fugitives lose the remnant of 
their power, or will what they retain be swept away ?” 

Barnave was coming to tell the queen all that had taken place 
on the 5th. 

All seemed to anticipate some great event. 

The king also had awaited Barnave in the second of Madame 


404 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 


Campants rooms — and had been informed of Gilbert’s coming: 
and to hear more at ease, had retired to his room leaving Bar- 
nave with the queen. 

About nine, a step was heard in the passage, a voice exchanged 
a few words with tlie sentinel, and a young man appeared at 
the end of the corridor, in the uniform of a subaltern of the 
National Guard. It was Barnave. 

The queen opened the door, and Barnave, after having very 
carefully looked behind it, glided into the room. 

The door closed, and without a word having been exchanged, 
the sound of the turning of a key in the wards of the lock was 
heard. 

The heart of each beat with equal violence, though from very 
different sentiments. The heart of the queen from the hope of 
vengeance, that of Barnave from the desire of love. 

The queen hurried into the second room, in search, so to say, 
of light. When there, she sank on a chair. 

Barnave paused at the door and looked round the room. ïïe 
expected to find the king, who had been present at all the other 
interviews of the queen and himself. 

The room was unoccupied except by the pair, and for the 
first time since his walk in the garden of the palace of the 
Bishop of Meaux, Barnave was tête-à-tête with Marie Antoi- 
nette. 

“ Monsieur Barnave,” said the queen, “ I have been waiting 
two hours for you.” 

“ I wished, madame, to come at seven ; then, however, it was 
too early, and I met M. Marat ; how can such a man dare to 
approach your palace ?” 

“ M. Marat,” said the queen, as if she looked into her me- 
mory. “ Is he not a man who writes against us?” 

“ Who writes against everybody. His vipers’ eyes followed 
me until I disappeared behind the grating of the Feuillants.” 

“ I heard that to-day we won a victory in the Assembly?” 

“Yes, madame, we won a victory in the Assembly, but were 
defeated in the Jacobins.” 

“ My God,” said the queen, “ I do not understand this. I 
thought the Jacobins belonged to you, to Lameth and Dupont, 
and did what you wished?” 

Barnave shook his head sadly : “ Once,” said he, “that w.as 
the case ; a new spirit, however, now influences the Assembly.” 

“ Orlean ?s” asked the queen. 


THE GROUND-FLOOR OF THE TUILERIES, 405 

*‘Yes, madame, the present danger is from that source.” 

“ Danger ? Have we not avoided it by to-day’s vote ?” 

“Understand me, madame— for to understand our danger it 
Is necessary to avoid it. The vote of to-day declares ^ if a king 
retracts his oath, if he attacks or neglects to defend his people, 
he abdicates and becomes a simple citizen, liable to be accused 
for all that occurs after his abdication.” 

“ Well,” said the queen, “ the king will not retract his oath, 
he will not attack his people, and if it be attacked he will 
defend it.” 

“ Yes, madame, but this vote gives an opening to the Or- 
leanists and revolutionists. The Assembly did not act against 
the king, but merely took preventive measures against a second 
desertion, leaving the fiist. Do you not know what Laclos, 
the agent of the duke, p oposed this evening, at the Jacobins?” 
^ “ Something terrible ! What else could be expected from the 

author of ‘Liaisons Dangeieuses’?” 

“ He requested that a petition be circulated in Paris, and 
throughout France, in favour of deposing his majesty, and 
promised to obtain ten million signatures.” 

“ Ten million ! Good God ! aie we so hated that ten million 
Frenchmen would reject us ?” 

“ Madame, majorities are easily had.” 

“ Was the proposition successful ?” 

It creates some discussion. Danton sustained it” 

“ Danton ? I thought he was our friend. Montniorin speaks 
of a place of avocat to the king, given or sold to this man.” 

“ Montmorin is deceived. If Danton belongs to any one, it 
is to the Duke of Orleans.” 

“ And did Robespierre speak ? He, I am told, is beginning 
to acquire great influence.” 

“ Yes ; he did not approve of the petition, but of an. address 
to the people of the provinces.” 

“ But Robespierre must be disposed of, as he begins to acquire 
such influence.” 

“No one can ruin him, madame. He is for himself He 
has some idea, some utopia, a phantom, an ambition, perhaps.” 

“ What ambition can we not gratify ? Does he wish to be 
rich ?” 

“ No.” 

“ To be minister?” “ He may wish to be more.** 

The queen looked at Barnave with terror. 


THE COUNTESS DE CHAENY. 


406 

*• It ever seemed to me that the post of minister was the highest 
to which any of our subjects could pretend !” 

“ If Robespierre looks on the king as deposed, he no longer 
regards himself as a subject.” 

“ What does he desire, then ?” asked the queen with terror. 

“ These are times, madame, when men aspire to new political 
titles in place of old ones, which have been effaced.” 

“ Oh, yes ! I can understand that the Duke of Orleans aspires 
to be regent. His birth calls him to such a post : but a little 
country lawyer ” 

The queen forgot Barnave occupied exactly that position. 

Barnave did not notice the slight, either because he did not 
remark it, or had the courage to pretend not to do so. 

“ Marius and Cromwell, madame, emerged from the people.” 

“ Marius and Cromwell ! alas !” said the queen, “ when I 
heard those names, in my childhood, I never fancied they would 
be so terrible in my ears. But let us return to the subject we 
have left. Robespierre, you say, opposed the scheme of Laclos, 
which Danton sustained.” 

“ Yes ; but at that moment there came in a band of the every- 
day bathers of the Palais Royal, a troop of women controlled by 
Laclos, and the vote was not only passed, but at eleven to-morrow 
the Jacobins are to hear the petition at the Palais Royal, and 
will proceed to sign it on the altar of the country, thence to be 
sent to the provincial societies, to be signed by them.” 

“ And who is to draw up the petition ?” 

Danton, Laclos, and Brissot.” 

‘‘Three enemies ?” “ Y'es, madame.” 

“But what are the Constitutionalists about?” 

“ Well I madame, they have resolved to-morrow to risk all 
for all.” 

“ They cannot act with the Jacobins.” 

“ Your wonderful comprehension of men and things, madame, 
shows you the state of affairs. Yes, guided by Dupont and 
Lameth, your friends will to-morrow leave your enemies. They 
will oppose the Feuillants to the Jacobins.” 

“ What are the Feuillants ? Excuse me, but so many new 
words are introduced into politics, that each demands a question.” 

“ Madame, the Feuillants is a great building near the riding- 
school, and therefore near the Assembly, and which gives the 
name to the terrace of the Tuileries.* 

“ Who compose the club ?” 


THE GROUND-FLOOR OF THE TUILERIES. 


4C7 


“Lafayette and the National Guards — Bailly and the muni- 
cipality.” 

“ Lafayette ! Do you think you can rely on him ?” 

“ I believe him sincerely devoted to the king.” 

“ Devoted as the woodman is to the oak he fells. Bailly 
— go on ! I have no cause of complaint against him. I will even 
say more, he gave me the name of the woman who informed of 
our intention to escape. But I.afayette ?” 

“Your majesty will have an opportunity of judging.” 

“ Yes, it is true,” said the queen, looking painfully back, “Ver- 
sailles ! Well! This club — what will it propose ? — what will it 
do ? — what is its power ?” 

“ An enormous power, since, as I told you, it controls the 
National Guard, the municipality, and the majority of the As- 
sembly which vote with us. What will remain to the Jacobins? 
Five or six deputies, perhaps Robespierre, Petion, Laclos, the 
Duke of Orleans, three heterogeneous elements, who will only be 
able to disturb the new members, and a herd of noisy barkers 
who will make a noise, but who have no influence.” 

“ I trust so. But what will the Assembly do ?” 

“ Reprove Bailly for hishesitationanddelay. The consequence 
will be that Bailly, like a good clock, being well wound up, will 
keep time. But I see it is time for me to retire, yet it seems 
that I have much more to tell your majesty.” 

“ I, M. Barnave, can do nothing more than tell you how 
grateful we and our friends are for your goodness in exposing 
yourself to so much danger for us.” 

“ Madame, danger is a game by which I profit, whether beaten 
or successful in it, if the queen but reward me with a smile.” 

“ Alas, sir !” said the queen, “ I have forgotten how to smile, 
almost. But you have been so kind, that I will try to recall the 
time when I could, and promise that my first smile shall be 
yours.” 

Barnave placed his hand on his heart and bowed. He then 
begged to retire. 

“ When shall I see you again ?” 

“ To-morrow,” said Barnave, seeming to calculate, “ is the 
petition, and the first vote on it. In the evening, madame, I 
will come to tell you what has taken place in the Champ de 
Mars.” 

He left 

The queen returned sadly to the king, whom she found pen- 


THE COUNTESS DE CH ARN Y, 


40S 

sive as herself. Dr. Gilbert had left him, and given him the 
«jame information Barnave had imparted to tlie queen. 

They had but to exchange a glance, to know that eich saw 
how sombre things were. 

The king had just written a letter. Without speaking, he gave 
it to the queen. It was one to Monsieur, authorising him to ask 
the intervention of Austria and Prussia. 

“ Monsieur,” said the queen, “ has done me much harm, 
and would do more wrong ; as he has the king’s confidence, how- 
ever, he has mine.” 

Taking a pen, she heroically wrote her name by the side of the 
king’s. 

Let us now follow Dr. Gilbert to the Tuileries. 

The queen expects him, and as he is not Barnave, she is not 
in Madame Campan’s room on the ground-floor, but in her own 
apartments — seated on a chair, with her head leaning on her 
hand. 

She awaits Weber, whom she sent to the Champ de Mars upon 
hearing a discharge of musketry there, which caused her great 
uneasiness. The journey to Versailles had taught her much ; 
until then the revolution had seemed to her only a manœuvre 
of Pitt, and an intrigue of Orleans. She though Paris immoral 
and under bad conduct, but used to say, “ the honest country.” 
She had seen the country; it was more revolutionary than 
Paris. 

The assembly was old, decrepit, and stupid in adhering to 
the promises Barnave had made in its name. Besides, was 
it not about to die ? The embraces of a dying thing are not 
healthy. 

The queen waited for Weber most anxiously. The door — 
she looked anxiously to it; but instead of the broad Austrian 
figure of her foster-brother, she saw the austere face of Gil- 
bert. 

The queen did not like him, for his royalism was accom- 
panied by such well defined constitutional theories, that she 
thought him a republican ; she had, though, a certain respect 
for him. She would send for him neither in a physical nor 
moral crisis, but on this occasion she felt his influence. 

As she saw him she trembled. They ha4 not met sipxe the 
return from Varennes. 

“ Is it you, doctor T murmured she. 

Gilbert bowed. 


THE GROUND-FLOOR OF THE TUILERIES, 


409 


“ Yes, madame, it is 1. I knew that you expected Weber, 
and I can give you the news he would bring more precisely 
than he can. He was on the bank of the Seine, where there 
was no murder. I was on the other.” 

“ Murder ? What has happened, sir ?” asked the queen. 

“A great misfortune. The court party has triumphed.” 

“ The court party has triumphed ? Call you that a misfortune. 
Doctor Gilbert ?” 

“Yes ; because it has triumphed by one of those fearful 
measures which destroy the conqueror, and which result to 
the benefit of the conquered.” 

“ What has happened ?” 

“ Lafayette and Bailly have fired on the people, and conse- 
quently can no longer be of use to you.” 

“ Why ?” 

“ I'hey have lost their popularity.” 

“ What did the people on whom they fired 

“ Signed a petition for the deposing ” 

“Of whom?” 

“ Of the king.” 

“ And you think to fire on tnem was wrong ?” asked the 
queen, with a sparkling eye. 

“ I think it would have been better to convince than to shoot 
them.” 

“ Of what would you convince them ?” 

“ Of the king’s sincerity.” 

“ The king is sincere !” 

“ Excuse me, madame. Three days ago I left the king. All 
the evening had been passed in an effort to make him under- 
stand that his true enemies are his brothers, M. de Condé and 
the émigrés. On my knees I besought him to break off all 
connection with them, to adopt the constitution frankly, except 
those articles which are impossible. 'I'he king was convinced — 
at least I thought so — and was good enough to promise to have 
done with the emigration ; yet behind my back, madame, the 
king signed, and caused you to sign, a letter to Monsieur, in 
which he was authorised to say to the Emperor of Austria and 
the King of Prussia ” 

The queen blushed like a child taken flagrante delicto^ and 
looked down. She, however, recovered herself soon. 

“ Have our enemies then spies in the king’s cabinet ?” 


<10 THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY, 

“ Yes, madame, and it is this which makes every error on the 
king’s part as dangerous as it is.” 

“But the letter was written by the king’s own hand, and as 
soon as it was signed by me was sealed and given to the courier 
who was to bear it.” 

“ True, madame.” 

“ The letter was read.” 

“ The courier was arrested !” 

“ We are then surrounded by traitors.* 

“ All men are not like the Charnys.” 

“ What mean you ?” 

“ Alas ! madame, I wish to tell you one of the fatal auguries 
of the fall of kings, is when they drive from them men they 
should attach to their fortunes by chains of adamant.” 

“ M. de Charny was not driven away ; he left us. When 
kings become unfortunate, no tie suffices to retain men as 
friends.” 

Gilbert looked at the queen, shook his head, and said : 

“ Do not let us thus calumniate Charny, madame,^ or the 
blood of his brothers will shout from the tomb that the Queen 
of France is ungrateful.” 

“ Monsieur 1” 

“ Madame, you know I speak the truth ; that in the time of 
real danger, M. de Charny will be where duty calls him — where 
the peril is greatest.” 

The queen looked down. At last she said : 

“You did not, I suppose, come to talk to me about M. de 
Charny ?” 

“ No, madame, but ideas, like events, are sometimes so linked 
together by invisible threads, that those are exposed which should 
remain in the secret places of the heart. No, I came to speak 
to the queen ; excuse me if I spoke to the woman — I am ready 
to repair my fault.” 

“ What have you, monsieur, to say to the queen ?” 

“ I wished to show her the situation she, France and Europe 
occupy. Madame, in your hands is the future of the world. 
You play with it as with cards. You lost the first trick, October 
6th ; your courtiers think you have won the second. The next 
trick will be la belle^ and the stakes, which are throne, liberty, 
perhaps life, all are lost.” 

“ And,” said the queen, haughtily, “ think you, sir, such a 
fear will induce us to pause ?” 


THE CROUND-FLOOR OF THE TUILERIES, 411 

“ I know the king is brave : he is the descendant of Henry IV. 
I know the queen is heroic ; she is the grand-daughter of Maria 
Theresa. I will, therefore, seek only to convince them ; un- 
fortunately, I fear I shall never be able to impart my ideas to 
either.” 

“ Why take such trouble then, sir, if you think it will be use- 
less ?” 

“To do ipy duty, madame. Believe me, it is pleasant in 
stormy days like ours, at every effort, to say, ‘ I did my duty.’ ” 

The queen looked Gilbert in the face. 

“ Monsieur, first of all, do you think it yet possible to save 
the king ?” 

“ I do.” 

“ And royalty ?” 

“ I hope so.” 

“ Well, sir,” said the queen, with a sigh of intense sadness, 
“you are more happy than I, for I fear both are lost, and I con- 
tend only to fulfil my ideas of duty.” 

“Yes, madame, I see, but because you wish a despotic 
monarchy, and an absolute king ; like a miser who does not 
know, even when in sight of a shore which will restore him 
more than he loses, how to sacrifice a portion of his treasures, 
you sink yours, being borne down by their weight. Do as the 
prudent sailor does — throw the past aside, and strive for the 
future.” 

“To do so would be to break with the kings of Europe.” 

“True, but it is to make an alliance with the French 
people.” 

“ The French people cannot contend against a coalition.” 

“ Suppose you have at its head a king. With a king really 
attached to the constitution, the French people would conquer 
Europe.” 

“ An army of a million of men would be needed for that.” 

“ Europe, madame, is not to be conquered by a million ot 
men, but by an idea. Plant on the Rhine and on the Alps two 
tri-coloured flags with the inscription, ‘ War to tyrants, and 
liberty to peoples,’ and Europe is conquered !” 

“ Really, there are days when I am inclined to think the 
wisest become mad.” 

“ Madame, you do not know what France now is in the eyes 
of nations : France, with some individual crimes — some local 
excesses, which do not, however, sully her **'hite robe, or her 


412 


THE COUNTESS DE CH 4 EN y. 


purity-'virgin France is the goddess of liberty. The whole 
world loves her. The Pays Bas, the Rhine, Italy with her 
millions, invoke a blessing on her. She has but to cross the 
fi on tier, and millions will fall down before her. France, with 
liberty in her hands, ceases to be a nation, but is immutable 
justice, eternal reason. Madame, madame, take advantage of 
the fact that it has not yet entered upon violence ; for if you 
hesitate too long, those hands she extends to you will be turned 
against herself. 

“ Belgium, Germany, Italy, watch each of her movements 
with joy. Belgium says, ‘ Come !’ Germany says, * I follow !’ 
Italy exclaims, ‘ Save me !’ Far in the north, an unknown 
hand wrote in the cabinet of the great Gustavus, ‘ No war with 
France.’ None of those whom you call to your aid are pre- 
pared for war. Two empires hate us deeply. When I say 
empires, I mean an empress — Catheriae — and a minister — Pitt. 
They are powerless, though. At this moment Russia holds 
Turkey under one of her claws and Poland under the other. 
Two or three years will be required to digest one and devour 
the other. She urges the Germans on, and offers them France. 
She shames the inactivity of your brother Leopold, and points 
to the occupation of Holland by the King of Prussia, on account 
of a simple insult to his sister. ‘Forward!’ says Russia; but 
Leopold does not obey. Mr. Pitt is now swallowing India, and, 
like a boa-constrictor, suffers from laborious indigestion. If 
we wait, he will attack us, not by foreign, but by civil war. I 
am aware that you fear this Mr. Pitt dreadfully — that when you 
think of him, you grow pale. Would you strike him to the 
heart? Make France a republic with a king. What are you 
doing, though, madame ? What does your friend, the Princess 
de Lamballe? She tells England, where she represents you, 
that the only ambition of France is to obtain the magm charta 
and that the revolution, guided by the king, is re-acting. What 
says Pitt to these advances ? That he will not suffer France 
to be a republic ; that he will save the monarchy. All the 
caresses and persuasions of Madame de Lamballe have not 
induced him to promise that he will save the monarch, for he 
hates him — he hates the constitutional and philosophic 
Louis XVI., w'ho contended with him for India, and wrested 
America from his grasp. Pitt desires only that history may 
make a pendant to Charles L*' 


THE GROUND FLOOR OF THE TUILERIES. 


413 


“ Monsieur,” said the queen in terror, “ who unfolds all this 
to you ?” 

“ The men who tell me what the letters of your majesty 
contain !” 

“ Have we then no thought not theirs ?” 

“ I have told you, madame, that the kings of Europe are 
wrapped in a net in which those who would resist strive in vain. 
Do you, madame, but advance the ideas you seek to repress, and 
that net will become your armour. Those who hate, will become 
your defenders, and the invisible poniards that menace you, 
will become sabres to strike your enemies.” 

“ But those whom you call our enemies are kings, and our 
brothers !” 

‘‘ Madame, call the French your children, and see what the 
value of your diplomatic brethren is. Does not some fatal stain, 
too, seem to rest on all these kings ? Let us begin with your 
brother Leopold. Is he not worn out at forty by the Tuscan 
harem he transported to Vienna ? and does he not reanimate his 
expiring faculties by the murderous exciiements he prepares for 
himself? Look at Frederic ! look at Gustavus ! — the one died, 
the other will die, without posterity ; for in the eyes of all, the 
prince royal of Sweden is the son of Monk, and not of Gustavus. 
Look at the King of Portugal, with three hundred nuns ! at the 
King of Saxony, with his three hundred and fifty bastards ! Look 
at Catharine, the northern Pasiphaë, whom a bull would not 
satisfy, and who has three armies of lovers ! Madame ! madame ! 
do you not see that all these kings rush to suicidal ruin ! You, 
instead of going with them, should advance to universal 
empire !” 

“ Why, then, M. Gilbert, do you not say this to the king ?” 

“ I do ! I do ! He, though, like you, has his evil genii, which 
come to undo all that I accomplish.” 

Then, with profound melancholy, he continued : “ You had 
Mirabeau — you have Barnave ; you will use me after them, and 
like them, and all will be said.” 

“ M. Gilbert,” said the queen, I will seek the king, and 
return.” 

Gilbert bowed. The queen passed through the door which 
led into the king’s room. 

The doctor waited ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, half-an- 
hour, and at last a door on the other side opened. 

An usher, having looked carefully around, advanced towards 


414 


THE COCWTESS DE CHARE Y, 


Gilbert, made a masonic sign, and handed him a letter. He 
left at once. 

Gilbert opened the letter and read : 

“ You lose time, Gilbert, for at this moment, the queen and 
king listen to M. de Breteuil, who brings them this advice from 
Vienna : 

“ To treat Barnave as they did Mirabeau, to gain time, to 
swear to the constitution, and execute it literally, so as to show 
that it cannot be executed. France will grow cold, and be- 
come tired. The French are volatile ; some new whim will 
seize them, and the Revolution be forgotten. 

“ If liberty does not pass away, we will have gained a year or 
two, and will be ready for war. 

“ Leave, then, those two beings called in derision King and 
Queen of France, and hurry to the hospital of Gros Caillon. 
You will find there a dying man less fatally affected than they, 
for you may save him, while without doing them any good you 
may be borne down by their fall.” 

The note had no signature, but Gilbert recognised Cagli- 
ostro’s hand. 

At that moment, Madame de Campan entered from the door 
of the queen’s room and handed Gilbert this note ; 

“ The king asks Dr. Gilbert to write down his political plan 
as he explained it to the queen. 

“The queen, being detained by a matter of importance, 
regrets that she will not be able to return to M. Gilbert. It is 
useless then for him to wait longer.” 

Gilbert thought for a moment and shook his head. “ Mad, 
mad !” said he. 

“ Have you nothing to say to their majesties, monsieur ?” said 
Madam de Campan. 

Gilbert gave her the unsigned letter that he had just received, 
and said “ Only this,” and left. 


NO MASTER I NO MIS TRESS é 


41S 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

NO MASTER ! NO MISTRESS 

On the next day, the Assembly received a report from the Maire 
of Paris and from the Commandant of the National Guard. All 
were anxious to be deceived, and the comedy was easily played. 

The Assembly thanked them for an energy they had no idea 
they had employed, and congratulated them for a victory each 
deplored from the bottom of his heart, and thanked God from 
the bottom of its heart that at one blow both the insurrection 
and the insurgents had been crushed. 

According to these felicitations, the revolution was terminated. 
It was just beginning. 

In the meantime, the old Jacobins, judging the morrow by 
the yesterday, fancied they were attacked and pursued, and 
prepared to find pardon for their real importance in a feigned 
humility. Robespierre, yet alarmed at having been nominated 
as king, instead of Louis XVI., drew up an address in the 
name of the present and absent. 

In this address he thanked the Assembly for its generous 
efforts, its wisdom, firmness, vigilance and impartial and incor- 
ruptible justice. 

How was it possible for the Feuillants not to regain courage, 
and think themselves powerful, when they thus saw the humility 
of their adversaries ? 

For a time they thought themselves masters, not only ot 
Paris, but of France. 

Alas ! the Feuillants did not understand the state of things. 
When they left the Jacobins, they. had merely formed an as- 
sembly which was a double of the real one. The similitude 
between the two was such, that in the Feuillants, as in the 
chamber, none were admitted except on condition of paying 
taxes, being an active citizen, and eligible of voting for 
electors, 

The people then had two chambers instead of one. This 


4i5 the countess de charny, 

was not what it wanted. It wished a popular chamber, to be 
not the ally, but the enemy of the Assembly, which would not 
reconstruct, but destroy royalty. 

The Feuillants did not then in any respect satisfy the public. 
The public, therefore, at once abandoned them. 

By crossing the street, they lost all popularity. 

In July, there were out of Paris four hundred societies. 
Three hundred corresponded with both Jacobins and Feuillants, 
one hundred with the Jacobins alone. 

As the Feuillants grew weak, the Jacobins rebuilt themselves 
under the guidance of Robespierre — the most popular man of 
France. 

What Cagliostro had prophesied to Gilbert about the little 
lawyer of Arras was accomplished. 

Perhaps we shall also see it fulfilled in relation to the little 
Ajaccio Corsican. 

The time for the termination of the National Assembly came. 
It struck slowly, it is true, like the life of an old man which 
slowly drops away. 

Having taken three thousand votes, the Assembly had finished 
the revision of the constitution. 

This constitution was an iron cage, in which, it knew not 
how, the king had been shut up. The fact that the bars were 
gilded did not make it the less a prison. 

The royal will was powerless, for it had become a wheel 
which received instead of giving motion. All the power of 
resistance which Louis XVI. had, was his veto^ which suspended 
for three years the execution of any decrees which did not 
please the king. The wheel then ceased to turn, and the whole 
machine was stopped. 

This vis inertice being left aside, the royalty of Henri IV., of 
Louis XIV., all the power of action of those great monarchs, 
was gone. 

The day on which the king was to swear to the constitution 
drew near. England and the emigres wrote to him ; “ Die if it 
be needed ; but do not degrade yourself by that oath.” 

Leopold and Barnave said : “ Swear, and let any one keep 
his oath who can.” 

The king terminated the discussion by this phrase : “ I de 
dare that I do not see consistency or amity enough in the con 
stitution ; as an expression of opinions, however, I will consent 
to it, and experience shall decide.” 


A'(9 MASl'EKI NO MJSTRESS I 


4*7 


It remained to be^determined where the constitution should 
be presented to the king — at the Tuileries or in the Assembly. 
The king said he would swear to the constitution where it was 
voted. 

The appointed day was the 13th September. 

The Assembly received this communication with unanimous 
applause. The king went thither. 

In an outburst of enthusiasm, Lafayette proposed an amnesty 
to all who were accused of having favoured the king’s flight. 
It was acceded to by acclamation. The cloud which had 
darkened the prospects of Andrée and Charny was dissipated. 

A deputation of sixty members was appointed to thank the 
king for his letter. 

The keeper of the seals hurried to tell the king of the vote. 

On the same morning, the Assembly had abolished the order 
ot the Saint Esprit, authorising the king alone to wear the 
cordon, which was the evidence of the high nobility. 

The deputation found the king wearing only the star of St. 
Louis, and as Louis XVI. knew the effect which the absence 
of the cordon bleu would produce, he said : 

“ Gentlemen, this morning you abolished the order of the 
Saint Esprit, preserving it for me alone. As an order to me 
has no value except that it gives me the power of communica- 
tion, henceforth I look on it as abolished for me also.” 

The queen, dauphin, and Madame Royale, stood near the 
door. The queen was pale, and quivered in every nerve. 
Madame Royale, already proud, passionate, and violent, was 
haughty, and seemed not only to be aware of what passed, but 
to foresee future indignities. The dauphin was careless as a 
child, and looked like a human being inserted in a group of 
statuary. 

The king, a few days before, had said to Montmorin : ‘‘ I 
know I am lost ; all that is now done for royalty is for my 
son.” 

Louis XVI. replied, with apparent sincerity, to the reply of 
the deputation ; when he had done, he turned to the dauphin 
and royal family : “ My wife and children,” said he, “ partake 
of my sentiments.” 

Yes, they did ; for when the deputation retired they drew 
together, and when they had looked after it anxiously, Marie 
Antoinette placed her white and marble-cold hand on the king’s 
arm, and said ; 


27 


THE COUNTESS DE CHAT NV, 


418 

These people will have no more kings. Stone by stone, 
thf y tear down the monarchy, and of those stones build a tomb 
for us.’^ 

She was mistaken, poor woman. She was to have a pauper’s 
grave — not even a tomb. 

She was not, however, wrong about the attacks on the royal 
prerogative. 

M. de Malouet was President of the Assembly, and was a 
royalist. He, however, thought it necessary to consult the 
Assembly as to the manner in which the oath should be ad- 
ministered, and whether it would be seated or stand during the 
ceremony. 

“ Seated,” was heard from all sides. 

And the king ?” said De Malouet. 

“ Standing and uncovered,” said a voice. 

The Assembly trembled. 

This voice was isolated, but clear, strong, and vibrating. It 
seemed the voice of the people, uttered alone for greater dis- 
tinctness. The president grew pale. 

Who pronounced those words? Came they from the hall, 
or from the galleries ? It mattered not ; they were so powerful 
that he had to reply. 

“ Gentlemen,* said he, “ there is no circumstance in which 
the Assembly of the nation does not recognise the king as its 
chief. If the king stand, I propose that the Assembly hear the 
oath in the same attitude.” 

The voice then said : 

“ I propose an amendment which will suit everybooy. Let 
us order that it be permitted to M. de Malouet, and those who 
prefer it, to hear the king kneeling ; let us, though, maintain 
the proposition.” 

The proposition was lost. 

On the next day the king was to swear. The hall was full 
and the galleries crowded with spectators. At noon the king 
was announced. 

He spoke erect, and the Assembly heard him standing. The 
discourse having been pronounced, the constitution was signed, 
and all sat down. 

The president, Thouret, arose to pronounce his discourse, 
but after the two or three first phrases, seeing that the king did 
not rise, he resumed his seat. The galleries applauded, and 
the king evidently grew pale. 


KO MASTER! NO MISTRESS! 


419 


He took his handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the 
perspiration from his brow. The queen, in a closed box, 
witnessed the ceremonial. She could bear no more, but arose, 
went out, closed the door, and returned to the Tuileries. 

She returned without speaking a word even to her most 
intimate friends. Since Charny had gone ,her heart absorbed 
poison but did not emit it. 

The king returned half an hour after. 

“ The queen asked he. 

They told him where she was. 

An usher wished to walk before him. He put him aside by 
a sign, and appeared at the door of the room where she was. 

He was* so pale, so overcome, that the perspiration hung in 
large drops on his brow. The queen, when she saw him, arose 
and shrieked : 

“ Sire !” said she, “ what has happened ?” 

Without speaking, the king sank into an arm-chair and 
sobbed. 

“ Madame, madame !” at last said he, ** why would you be 
present at this session ? Why would you be a witness of my 
humiliation ? Was it for this, under the pretext of being a queen, 
that I brought you to France ?” 

Such an explosion from Louis XVI. was the more painful 
because it was rare. The queen could not resist, and running 
to the king, threw herself at his feet Just then the door opened, 
and she turned round. Madame Carapan had come in. 

The queen reached out her hand, and said : 

“ Leave us, Campan, leave us.” 

Madame de Campan did not misconceive why the queen 
wished her to go. She retired respectfully, but standing behind 
the door, heard the unfortunate couple long exchanging phrases, 
broken by sobs. At last they calmed their sobs, and were 
silent. After half an hour, the door opened, and the queen 
herself called Madame de Campan. 

“ Campan,” said she, “ give this letter to M. de Malden. It 
is addressed to my brother Leopold. Let him set out at once 
for Vienna, which he must reach before the news of to-day. If 
he need two or three hundred louis, give them to him. I will 
return them.” 

Madame de Campan took the letter and left. Two hours 
after M. de Malden set out for Vienna. 


27 — 2 


420 


THE COn^TTESS DE CH ARN Y. 


The worst feature of all this was that they had to seem happy 
and joyous. 

During the rest of the day a tremendous crowd filled the 
Tuileries ; at night the whole city was illuminated. The king 
and queen were invited to show themselves in the Champs 
Elvsées, escorted by the aides-de-camp and chiefs of the 
Parisian army. 

Scarcely had they appeared, than cries of “ Vive le roi !” 

“ Vive la reine !” arose. After an interval the cries ceased. It 
was where the carriage had halted. 

“ Do not believe them, madame,” said a stern looking man 
of the people, who stood by with folded arms. “Vive la 
nation !” 

The carriage was slowly driven on, out the man who had 
spoken placed his hand on the carriage-door, and whenever the 
cry of “ Vive le roi !” was heard, or “ Vive la reine 1” — shouted 
“ Vive la nation !” 

The queen returned with her heart crushed by the constant 
and heavy blows which were lanced on her by anger and 
hatred. 

Representations were organized at the different theatres, at 
the opera, the Comédie Française and the Italiens. 

At the two first the king and queen were received with 
unanimous applause ; but at the last the people had taken all 
the pit, and they saw that at that place things would not go on 
well, and that there would probably be trouble during the 
evening. The fear became certain when they saw who filled 
the pit. 

Danton, Desmoulins, Legendre, Sauterre, occupied para- - 
mount seats. When the queen entered the box the galleries 
sought to applaud. The pit hissed. 

The queen looked with terror at the gaping crater before 
her. She saw the flame of eyes flashing with hatred and 
menace. 

“ What have I done ?” said she, seeking to hide her trouble 
with a smile. “ Why do they detest me so violently ?” 

All at once her eye rested with horror on a man who leaned 
against one of the columns on which the boxes rested. 

It was he of Taverney, of Sevres, of the garden of the 
Tuileries. It was he of the menacing words, and mysterious 
and terrible actions 


NO MASTER I NO MISTRESS t 


421 


When her eyes had once rested on him, she could not look 
away. He exerted the fascination of the serpent over her. 

The play began. The queen made an effort, and broke the 
charm, so as to be able to turn away and look at the stage. 

“ Evénements Imprévus ” of Gretry were played. 

All the efforts of Marie Antoinette to divert her attention, 
however, were vain, for the mysterious man used a magnetic 
power, more mighty than her will, and she could not but turn 
and look in one direction. 

The stare — motionless, sardonic, and mocking. It was a pain- 
ful impression, internal, and fatal. It was to one awake what 
the nightmare is to one asleep. 

A kind of electricity floated through the hall. These two 
influences could not but meet and crash, as in an August day 
two clouds come together, and hurl forth lightning, if not bolts. 
The occasion came. 

Madame Dagazon, a charming woman, who gave her name to 
a peculiar line of business, had a duo to sing with the tenor, in 
which were these verses : 

** Ah t comme ^ aime via maiiressel* 


The brave woman rushed to the front of the stage and opened 
her arms, reached them forth to the queen, sang the verses, and 
gave the fatal challenge. 

The queen knew the tempest was come ; terror-stricken, she 
turned aside, and her eyes fell involuntarily on the man who 
leaned against the column. She saw him make a sign, which 
the whole pit obeyed as an order. 

With one voice it cried ; “ No master I no mistress I 
Liberty !’* 

To this the galleries and boxes replied : 

“ Vive le roi 1 Vive la reine ! Long live our master and 
mistress !” 

“ No master ! no mistress ! Liberty I Liberty 1 Liberty !” 
howled the pit. 

After this double declaration of war, the strife began. 

The queen shrieked with terror, and closed her eyes. She 
could no longer look at this demon, who seemed the God of 
disorder, the spirit of destruction. 

The officers of the National Guard then surrounded her 
making a rampart of their bodies, and took her away. 


422 


THE COUNTESS DE Cil ARMY. 


In the corridor she heard the same cries. 

No master ! no mistress ! no king ! no queen !** 

They took her to her coach. She had fainted away. 

She never went to the theatre again. 

Sept. 30. The Constitutional Assembly declared that it had 
fulfilled its functions and closed its sessions. 

The following is the result of its labours, during a session of 
two years and four months : 

The complete disorganization of the monarchy. 

The organization of popular power. 

The destruction of all ecclesiastical and military privileges. 
The issue of 100,000,000 of assignats. 

The mortgage of the national property. 

The recognition of freedom of worship. 

Abolition of monastic vows. 

Abolition of lettres de cachet 
Equality of right of office. 

Suppression of internal custom-houses. 

The establishment of the National Guard. 

The adoption and ratification of the king. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE FAREWELL OF BARNAVE. 

On the second of October — that is to say, two days after the 
dissolution of the Assembly, at the hour of his usual rendezvous 
with the queen — Barnave was introduced, not on the ground* 
floor of Madame de Campan, but in the room called the great 
cabinet. 

On the evening of the day when the king swore to the con- 
stitution, the sentinel and aide-de-camp of Lafayette disappeared 
from the interior of the castle, and if the king had not regained 
his power, he had at least regained his liberty. 


THE FAREWELL OF BARN A VE, 


423 


This was small compensation for the humiliation of which he 
had complained so bitterly to the queen. 

Without being received publicly, and with all the preparation 
of a public audience, Barnave was not on this occasion sub- 
jected to the precautions which hitherto his presence at the 
Tuileries had made necessary. 

He was pale, and seemed very sad, and his sadness and pallor 
struck the queen. 

She received him standing, though she knew the respect the 
young lawyer held her in, and that if she sat down, he would 
not do what the President Thouret had done when he saw that 
the king did not rise. 

“Well, M. Barnave, are you satisfied?” said she; “the 
king has followed your advice, and sworn to the constitu- 
tion.” 

“ The queen is very kind,” said Barnave, bowing, “to say my 
advice. Had it not been both the advice of the Emperor 
Leopold and of Prince Kaunitz, perhaps your majesty had 
hesitated to accomplish this great act — the only one which, per- 
haps, can save the king, if the king ” 

Barnave paused. 

“ Can be saved. Is not that, monsieur, what you wished to 
say ?” said the queen, meeting the doubt courageously, and we 
may add with the daring w^hich was peculiar to her. 

“ God grant, madame, that I may never be the prophet of 
such misfortune. Yet, on the point of leaving Paris, of being 
separated for ever from the queen, I w'oiild neither have her 
majesty despair nor yield too much to illusion.” 

“You leave Paris, M. Barnave? You leave us?” 

“ The Assembly, madame, to which I belonged is over, and 
as it has been determined that no member of the Assembly 
w'hich established the constitution can belong to the Legis- 
lative Assembly, I have no longer a motive to remain in 
Paris.” 

“ Not even if you could be useful to us, M. Barnave ?” 

Barnave smiled sadly. 

“ Not even for that purpose, for from yesterday I shall be 
able to do you no good.” 

“ Sir,” said the queen, “ you have too lowly an estimate of 
yourself.” 

“ Alas, madame, I have tried, and found myself w'eak. I have 
weighed, and found myself light. What was my power, which I 


424 


THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 


wished the monarchy to use as a lever ? My influence was my 
power over the Jacobins — it was a popularity laboriously, pain- 
fully acquired. The Assembly, though, is dissolved ; the Jaco- 
bins are Feuillants ; and I am afraid the latter made a great 
mistake when they left the old club ; in fine, madame, popu- 
larity ” 

Barnave smiled more sadly than he had at first 

“ In fine, my popularity is gone.” 

The queen looked at Barnave, and a strange glance, like one 
of triumph, passed over her eyes. 

“Well, sir,” said she, “you see that popularity maybe lost” 

Barnave sighed. 

The queen saw that she had committed one of those little 
cruelties which were habitual to her. 

The fact was, Barnave had so completely lost his popularity, 
that he had been forced to bend his head to Robespierre ; and 
to whom was the fault of this to be attributed ? Was it not to 
that fatal monarchy, which dragged all that it touched into an 
abyss, into which it was itself hurrying, to that terrible destiny 
which made of Marie Antoinette, as it had done of Mary Stuart, 
an angel of death, devoting all those to whom she appeared to the 
tomb. 

Then, to a degree, she retraced her steps, and regretting that 
Banave had replied by a simple sigh when "he might have said, 
“ For whom have I lost my popularity, unless for you ?” she re- 
sumed : 

“ But, Monsieur Barnave, you will not go.” 

“ Certainly,” said Barnave, “ if the queen bid me stay, I will, 
as the soldier remains under the flag, though he have permission 
to go and guard it in battle. But, if I remain, madame, do you 
know what will happen ? — instead of being weak, I shall be a 
traitor."” 

“ How so, sir ?” said the queen, slightly wounded. “ Ex- 
plain ; I do not understand.” 

“ Will the queen permit me to show her not only the situa- 
tion in which she is, but in which she will be ?” 

“ Do so, sir ; I am accustomed to measure abysses, and had I 
been liable to vertigo, would long ago have cast myself head- 
long 

“ The queen, perhaps, looks on the Assembly which has just 
expired as an enemy.” 

“ Let us make a distinction, M. Barnave ; in that Assembly I 


THE FAREWELL OF BARN AVE, 


42 <> 

had friends. You will not, however, deny that the majority of 
the Assembly was hostile to royalty.” 

^ ‘‘ Madame,” said Barnave, “ the Assembly never attacked 
either you or the king but once. That was when it declared 
that noue of its members could belong to the Corps Legisla- 
tive.” 

“ I do not understand this, sir. Explain it to me,” said the 
queen, with a doubt. 

“ Easily enough ; it wrested a buckler from the arm of your 
friends.” 

“And it seems to me almost a sword from the hand of my 
enemies.” 

“ Alas, madame, you are mistaken ! The shaft was winged by 
Robespierre, and all that comes from him is terrible. He 
throw’s you unknown into the first Assembly. You knew in the 
old one whom to contend with \ in the Corps Legislative you 
have a new study to make. Observe, too, madame, in excluding 
all of us, Robespierre forced France into the alternative of re- 
ceiving our superiors or our inferiors. There is nothing above 
us ; the emigration has disorganised everything, and if there 
were a noblesse in France, the people w’ould not select its 
representatives from it. The new assembly, then, will be 
democratic; there will be shades in that democracy, that is 
all.” 

The queen’s countenance show’ed that she follow’ed with at- 
tention what Barnave had said, and, beginning to understand, 
she began to be afraid. 

“ Listen,” said Barnave ; “ I have seen these deputies, for 
during the last three or four days, they have begun to collect 
at Paris : I saw those from Bordeaux. They are almost men of 
unknown names, but who are anxious to be conspicuous — apart 
from Condorcet, Brissot, and some others, the oldest is scarcely 
thirty years old. Age is driven away by youth, w hich dethrones 
tradition. Away with white hairs : new France will be ruled by 
black.” 

■ “ Think you, sir, we have more to fear from those who are 
about to come, than from those who have gone ?” ^ 

“ Yes, madame ; the new-comers have instructions to make 
war on nobles and on priests. They say nothing as yet about 
the king, but time will show. If he be content with the 
executive, however, perhaps all will be pardoned that has 
passed.” 


426 


THE COUNTESS DE CH ARN Y, 


“ How !” said the queen, “ pardon the past ? I presume the 
king has the right to pardon.” 

“ That is exactly what people will never understand again— 
especially the people who are coming, madame, and you will 
have evidence of it. They will not even keep up the hypo- 
critical pretences of those who are going. They, like one of my 
confreres^ Vergniaud, a deputy from La Gironde, will look on the 
king as an enemy.” 

“ An enemy !” said the queen in amazement. 

“ Yes, madame,” repeated Barnave, “ an enemy : that is to say, 
the voluntary or involuntary centre of all our internal and ex- 
ternal enemies. Alas ! yes ; it must be owned that the new- 
comers are not altogether wrong, who believe they have dis- 
covered a truth, and who utter aloud what your bitterest 
adversaries dare not whisper.” 

“Enemy?” repeated the queen, “the king the enemy of his 
people ? That is a thing, M. Barnave, you not only never can 
convince me of, but you cannot make me understand.” 

“ Yet it is true, madame ; he is an enemy by nature, and by 
temperament ; yet three days ago he accepted the constitution. 
Did he not ?” 

“Yes ; well ?” 

“ Well, when he returned hither, the king had almost died of 
anger, and this evening he wrote to the emperor.” 

“ But how, think you, can we bear such humilities ?” 

“ Ah, madame, he is an enemy, and fatally an enemy. He 
is a voluntary enemy, for, educated by M. de la Vauguyon, the 
general of the Jesuitical party, the heart of the king is in the 
hands of the priests, who are the enemies of the nation ; an in- 
voluntary enemy, because he is the compulsory chief of the 
reaction. Suppose, even, that he remains in Paris : he is at 
Coblentz with the emigration, in La Vendée with the priests, in 
Prussia with his allies Leopold and Frederic, The king does 
nothing. I admit, madame,” said Barnave, sadly, “ that he 
does nothing. Not being able to use him, however, they use his 
name. In the cottage, in the pulpit, in the castle, he is the 
poor, good king, the holy king ; so that a terrible revolt to the 
reign of revolution is threatened. Madame, it is the revolt of 
pity !” 

“ Indeed, Monsieur Barnave, do you tell me these things ? 
and were you not the first to pity us ?” 

“ Yes, madame, yes, I did and do pity you sincerely. There 


THE FAREWELL OF BARNAVE, 


427 


IS, however, a difference between me and the persons of whom 
I speak. They, by their pity, destroy; I would save 
you !” 

“ But, sir, among those, as you say, who come to wage war on, 
and to destroy us, is there aught predetermined on ?” 

‘‘No, madame, and I have, as yet, only heard of vague ex- 
pressions. The suppression of the title of ‘ majesty,’ in the first 
session ; instead of a throne, an arm chair, on the seat of the 
president.” 

“ See you in that anything worse than M. Thouret taking his 
seat because the king did ?” 

“ It is, at least, one step forward, instead of in the rear. This 
then, madame, is alarming ; Lafayette and Bailly will be dis- 
missed.’^ 

Well,” said the queen, “I do not regret them.” 

“ You are wrong, madame ; they are both your friends.** 

The queen smiled bitterly. 

“Your friends, madame; perhaps your best friends. Be 
careful of them. If they have preserved any popularity, be 
not slow to use it ; for it will pass away, madame, as mine 
has.” 

“ And beyond all that, monsieur, you show me ruin. You 
conduct me to the very crater, make me measure its depths, but 
do not tell me how to avoid it.” 

For a moment Barnave was silent. 

Then, uttering a sigh : 

“ Madame,” said he, “ why were you arrested at Mont- 
médy?” 

“ Good,” said the queen, “ M. Barnave approves of my flight 
to Varennes.” 

“ I do not, madame; for the situation in which you are now is 
the natural consequence of it As its results, though, have 
been such, I am sorry that it did not succeed.” 

“ Then to-day, M. Barnave, a member of the National Assem- 
bly, delegate of that Assembly with Petion and Latour-Maubourg, 
to bring back the king and queen to Paris, deplores that they 
are not in a foreign land.” 

“ Let us understand each other, madame. He who deplores 
that, is not a member of the Assembly, not the colleague of 
Petion and of Latour-Maubourg, but poor Barnave, your 
humble servant, ready to sacrifice his life for you, and life is all 
that he possesses.” 


THE COUNTESS DE CHAR NY, 


428 

** Thanks, sir !” said the queen ; “ the accent in which you 
speak proves that you would keep your word. I hope, though, 
such devotion never will be necessary !” 

So much the worse for me, madame,” said Barnave. 

“ How ? so much the worse ?” 

“ Yes, fall, or fall. I had rather have died fighting, as I see 
I shall, than in the depths of Dauphiny, where I shall be useless 
to you, but yet will make vows and prayers for the most 
beautiful woman that ever lived — for the most tender and 
devoted mother — for the queen. The same faults which have 
created the past will prepare the future. You will rely on an 
assistance which will never come, or which will come too late. 
The Jacobins will seize on the power of the Legislative Assem- 
bly ; your friends will leave France to avoid persecution, and 
those who remain will be arrested and imprisoned. I shall be 
one of them, for I shall not fly. I shall be judged — condemned. 
Perhaps my death will be useless to you, or even unknown ; 
should you hear of it, I shall have been of little use to you, and 
you will have forgotten the few hours during which I hoped to 
serve you.” 

“M. Barnave,” said the queen, with great dignity, “I am 
ignorant w^hat fate is in store for the king and myself. All I 
know is, that the names of those who have served us are scru- 
pulously inscribed in my memory, and that neither their good 
nor ill-Ibrtune will be a matter of indifference to us. What, 
though, M. Barnave, can we do for you ?” 

‘‘You, madame, personally, can do much. You can show 
that I have not been entirely without value to you.” 

“ What can I do thus ?” 

Barnave knelt. 

“ Give me, madame, your hand to kiss !” 

A tear rushed to Marie Antoinette’s dry eyelids. She gave 
the young man her white, cold hand, which had been kissed by 
the lips of the two most eloquent men of the Assembly, Mirabeau 
and Barnave. 

Barnave merely touched it. The poor madman was afraid 
that if he kissed^ he would never be able to tear his lips 
away. 

Then, rising, fie said : 

“ Madame, I have not pride enough to tell you, * The mon- 
archy is safe but I say, if it be lost, one who never will forget 
this kindness will fall with it I” 


THE FAREWELL OF BARNAVE. 


429 


He bowed and withdrew. 

Marie Antoinette looked after him with a sigh, and when the 
door was closed, said : 

“ Poor hollow nut I it needed but a little time to reduce you 
to a mere shell Ï* 


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